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SOLITARY 


QTT^/[MFT? 


GIFT   OF 


*.     -3^ 


The  Solitary  Summer 


•The 


The 


Solitary   Summer 


BY   THE    AUTHOR   OF 

''ELIZABETH  AND  HER   GERMAN  GARDEN" 


Nature  nous  a  estrenez  d''une  large  faculti  a  nous  entretenir  a 
part ;  et  nous  y  appelle  sowvent,  pour  nous  apprendre  que  nous  nous 
debrons  en  partie  a  la  societe,  mais  en  la  meilleure  partie  a  nous. 

Montaigne,  Essais,  ii.  i8. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1900 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1899, 
By   the   MACMILLAN    COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electro  typed  April,  1899.      Reprinted  July, 
August,  November,  December,  1899 ;  March ;  June,   Sep- 
tember, October,  1900. 


-^  ^\-- 


Norwood  Press 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


'0  ^ 


TO 
THE   MAN    OF   WRATH 

WITH 
SOME    APOLOGIES 

AND 

MUCH    LOVE 


r> ^  i^  f-^  iT*  -"^ 


May 


MAY 


May  md.  —  Last  night  after  dinner,  when  we  were 
in  the  garden,  I  said,  "  I  want  to  be  alone  for  a 
whole  summer,  and  get  to  the  very  dregs  of  Hfe. 
I  want  to  be  as  idle  as  I  can,  so  that  my  soul  may 
have  time  to  grow.  Nobody  shall  be  invited  to 
stay  with  me,  and  if  any  one  calls  they  will  be  told 
that  I  am  out,  or  away,  or  sick.  I  shall  spend  the 
months  in  the  garden,  and  on  the  plain,  and  in  the 
forests.  I  shall  watch  the  things  that  happen  in 
my  garden,  and  see  where  I  have  made  mistakes. 
On  wet  days  I  will  go  into  the  thickest  parts  of 
the  forests,  where  the  pine  needles  are  everlastingly 
dry,  and  when  the  sun  shines  I'll  lie  on  the  heath 
and  see  how  the  broom  flares  against  the  clouds. 
I  shall  be  perpetually  happy,  because  there  will  be 
no  one  to  worry  me.     Out  there  on  the    plain 


4  THE   SOLITARY   SUiMMER 

there  is  silence,  and  where  there  is  silence  I  have 
discovered  there  is  peace." 

"  Mind  you  do  not  get  your  feet  damp,"  said 
the  Man  of  Wrath,  removing  his  cigar. 

It  was  the  evening  of  May  Day,  and  the  spring 
had  taken  hold  of  me  body  and  soul.  The  sky 
was  full  of  stars,  and  the  garden  of  scents,  and 
the  borders  of  wallflowers  and  sweet,  sly  pansies. 
All  day  there  had  been  a  breeze,  and  all  day 
slow  masses  of  white  clouds  had  been  sailing 
across  the  blue.  Now  it  was  so  still,  so  motion- 
less, so  breathless,  that  it  seemed  as  though  a 
quiet  hand  had  been  laid  on  the  garden,  sooth- 
ing and  hushing  it  into  silence. 

The  Man  of  Wrath  sat  at  the  foot  of  the 
verandah  steps  in  that  placid  after-dinner  mood 
which  suffers  fools,  if  not  gladly,  at  least  indul- 
gently, and  I  stood  in  front  of  him,  leaning 
against  the  sun-dial. 

"  Shall  you  take  a  book  with  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  I  replied,  slightly  nettled  by 
his  tone.  "  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit  that 
though  the  fields  and  flowers  are  always  ready 
to  teach,  I  am  not  always  in  the  mood  to  learn, 
and  sometimes  my  eyes  are  incapable  of  seeing 
things  that  at  other  times  are  quite  plain." 


MAY  5 

"And  then  you  read  ?  " 

"  And  then  I  read.  Well,  dear  Sage,  what  of 
that?" 

But  he  smoked  in  silence,  and  seemed  suddenly- 
absorbed  by  the  stars. 

"  See,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  during  which  I 
stood  looking  at  him  and  wishing  he  would  use 
longer  sentences,  and  he  looked  at  the  sky  and 
did  not  think  about  me  at  all,  "  see  how  bright  the 
stars  are  to-night.  Almost  as  though  it  might 
freeze." 

"  It  isn't  going  to  freeze,  and  I  won't  look  at 
anything  until  you  have  told  me  what  you  think  of 
my  idea.  Wouldn't  a  whole  lovely  summer,  quite 
alone,  be  delightful  ?  Wouldn't  it  be  perfect  to 
get  up  every  morning  for  weeks  and  feel  that  you 
belong  to  yourself  and  to  nobody  else  ?  "  And  I 
went  over  to  him  and  put  a  hand  on  each  shoulder 
and  gave  him  a  little  shake,  for  he  persisted  in 
gazing  at  the  stars  just  as  though  I  had  not  been 
there.  "  Please,  Man  of  Wrath,  say  something 
long  for  once,"  I  entreated ;  "  you  haven't  said  a 
good  long  sentence  for  a  week." 

He  slowly  brought  his  gaze  from  the  stars  down 
to  me  and  smiled.  Then  he  drew  me  on  to  his 
knee. 


6  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  Don't  get  affectionate,"  I  urged  ;  "  it  is  words, 
not  deeds,  that  I  want.  But  I'll  stay  here  if  you'll 
talk." 

"  Well  then,  I  will  talk.  What  am  I  to  say  ? 
You  know  you  do  as  you  please,  and  I  never 
interfere  with  you.  If  you  do  not  want  to  have 
any  one  here  this  summer  you  will  not  have  any 
one,  but  you  will  find  it  a  very  long  summer." 

"  No,  I  won't." 

"  And  if  you  lie  on  the  heath  all  day,  people 
will  think  you  are  mad." 

"  What  do  I  care  what  people  think  ?  " 

"  No,  that  is  true.  But  you  will  catch  cold, 
and  your  little  nose  will  swell." 

«  Let  it  swell." 

"  And  when  it  is  hot  you  will  be  sunburnt  and 
your  skin  spoilt." 

"  I  don't  mind  my  skin." 

"  And  you  will  be  dull." 

"  Dull  ? " 

It  often  amuses  me  to  reflect  how  very  little  the 
Man  of  Wrath  really  knows  me.  Here  we  have 
been  three  years  buried  in  the  country,  and  I  as 
happy  as  a  bird  the  whole  time.  I  say  as  a  bird, 
because  other  people  have  used  the  simile  to 
describe  absolute  cheerfulness,  although  I  do  not 


MAY  7 

believe  birds  are  any  happier  than  any  one  else, 
and  they  quarrel  disgracefully.  I  have  been  as 
happy  then,  we  will  say,  as  the  best  of  birds,  and 
have  had  seasons  of  solitude  at  intervals  before  now 
during  which  dull  is  the  last  word  to  describe  my 
state  of  mind.  Everybody,  it  is  true,  would  not 
like  it,  and  I  had  some  visitors  here  a  fortnight  ago 
who  left  after  staying  about  a  week  and  clearly  not 
enjoying  themselves.  They  found  it  dull,  I  know, 
but  that  of  course  was  their  own  fault ;  how  can  you 
make  a  person  happy  against  his  will  ?  You  can 
knock  a  great  deal  into  him  in  the  way  of  learning 
and  what  the  schools  call  extras,  but  if  you  try  for 
ever  you  will  not  knock  any  happiness  into  a  being 
who  has  not  got  it  in  him  to  be  happy.  The  only 
result  probably  would  be  that  you  knock  your  own 
out  of  yourself  Obviously  happiness  must  come 
from  within,  and  not  from  without ;  and  judging 
from  my  past  experience  and  my  present  sensations, 
I  should  say  that  I  have  a  store  just  now  within  me 
more  than  sufficient  to  fill  five  quiet  months. 

"  I  wonder,"  I  remarked  after  a  pause,  during 
which  I  began  to  suspect  that  I  too  must  belong 
to  the  serried  ranks  of  the  femmes  incomprises^ 
"  why  you  think  I  shall  be  dull.  The  garden  is 
always  beautiful,  and  I   am  nearly  always  in  the 


8  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

mood  to  enjoy  it.  Not  quite  always,  I  must  con- 
fess, for  when  those  Schmidts  were  here "  (their 
name  was  not  Schmidt,  but  what  does  that  mat- 
ter ?)  "  I  grew  ahnost  to  hate  it.  Whenever  I 
went  into  it  there  they  were,  dragging  themselves 
about  with  faces  full  of  indignant  resignation.  Do 
you  suppose  they  saw  one  of  those  blue  hepaticas 
overflowing  the  shrubberies  ?  And  when  I  drove 
with  them  into  the  woods,  where  the  fairies  were 
so  busy  just  then  hanging  the  branches  with  little 
green  jewels,  they  talked  about  Berlin  the  whole 
time,  and  the  good  savouries  their  new  chef  m^kes." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  no  doubt  they  missed  their 
savouries.  Your  garden,  I  acknowledge,  is  grow- 
ing very  pretty,  but  your  cook  is  bad.  Poor 
Schmidt  sometimes  looked  quite  ill  at  dinner, 
and  the  beauty  of  your  floral  arrangements  in 
no  way  made  up  for  the  inferior  quality  of  the 
food.     Send  her  away." 

"  Send  her  away  ?  Be  thankful  you  have  her. 
A  bad  cook  is  more  efi'ectual  a  great  deal  than 
Kissingen  and  Carlsbad  and  Homburg  rolled  into 
one,  and  very  much  cheaper.  As  long  as  I  have 
her,  my  dear  man,  you  will  be  comparatively  thin 
and  amiable.  Poor  Schmidt,  as  you  call  him,  eats 
too  much  of  those  delectable  savouries,  and  then 


MAY  9 

looks  at  his  wife  and  wonders  why  he  married  her. 
Don't  let  me  catch  you  doing  that." 

"  I  do  not  think  it  is  very  likely,"  said  the  Man 
of  Wrath  ;  but  whether  he  meant  it  prettily,  or 
whether  he  was  merely  thinking  of  the  improb- 
ability of  his  ever  eating  too  much  of  the  local 
savouries,  I  cannot  tell.  I  object,  however,  to 
discussing  cooks  in  the  garden  on  a  starlight  night, 
so  I  got  off  his  knee  and  proposed  that  we  should 
stroll  round  a  little. 

It  was  such  a  sweet  evening,  such  a  fitting  close 
to  a  beautiful  May  Day,  and  the  flowers  shone  in 
the  twilight  like  pale  stars,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
fragrance,  and  I  envied  the  bats  fluttering  through 
such  a  bath  of  scent,  with  the  real  stars  above  and 
the  pansy  stars  beneath,  and  themselves  so  fashioned 
that  even  if  they  wanted  to  they  could  not  make  a 
noise  and  disturb  the  prevailing  peace.  A  great 
deal  that  is  poetical  has  been  written  by  English 
people  about  May  Day,  and  the  impression  left  on 
the  foreign  mind  is  an  impression  of  posies,  and 
garlands,  and  village  greens,  and  youths  and 
maidens  much  be-ribboned,  and  lambs,  and  general 
friskiness.  I  was  in  England  once  on  a  May  Day, 
and  we  sat  over  the  fire  shivering  and  listening 
blankly  to  the  north-east  wind  tearing  down  the 


10  THE   SOLITARY   SUMiMER 

street  and  the  rattling  of  the  hail  against  the 
windows,  and  the  friends  with  whom  I  was  stay- 
ing said  it  was  very  often  so,  and  that  they  had 
never  seen  any  lambs  and  ribbons.  We  Germans 
attach  no  poetical  significance  to  it  at  all,  and  yet 
we  well  might,  for  it  is  almost  invariably  beautiful ; 
and  as  for  garlands,  I  wonder  how  many  villages 
full  of  young  people  could  have  been  provided 
with  them  out  of  my  garden,  and  nothing  be 
missed.  It  is  to-day  a  garden  of  wallflowers,  and 
I  think  I  have  every  colour  and  sort  in  cultivation. 
The  borders  under  the  south  windows  of  the  house, 
so  empty  and  melancholy  this  time  last  year,  are 
crammed  with  them,  and  are  finished  off  in  front 
by  a  broad  strip  from  end  to  end  of  yellow  and 
white  pansies.  The  tea  rose  beds  round  the  sun- 
dial facing  these  borders  are  sheets  of  white,  and 
golden,  and  purple,  and  wine-red  pansies,  with  the 
dainty  red  shoots  of  the  tea  roses  presiding  deli- 
cately in  their  midst.  The  verandah  steps  leading 
down  into  this  pansy  paradise  have  boxes  of  white, 
and  pink,  and  yellow  tulips  all  the  way  up  on  each 
side,  and  on  the  lawn,  behind  the  roses,  are  two 
big  beds  of  every  coloured  tulip  rising  above  a 
carpet  of  forget-me-nots.  How  very  much  more 
charming  different-coloured    tulips    are    together 


MAY  II 

than  tulips  in  one  colour  by  itself!  Last  year, 
on  the  recommendation  of  sundry  writers  about 
gardens,  I  tried  beds  of  scarlet  tulips  and  forget- 
me-nots.  They  were  pretty  enough ;  but  I  wish 
those  writers  could  see  my  beds  of  mixed  tulips. 
I  never  saw  anything  so  sweetly,  delicately  gay. 
The  only  ones  I  exclude  are  the  rose-coloured 
ones  ;  but  scarlet,  gold,  delicate  pink,  and  white 
are  all  there,  and  the  effect  is  infinitely  enchanting. 
The  forget-me-nots  grow  taller  as  the  tulips  go 
off,  and  will  presently  tenderly  engulf  them  alto- 
gether, and  so  hide  the  shame  of  their  decay  in 
their  kindly  little  arms.  They  will  be  left  there, 
clouds  of  gentle  blue,  until  the  tulips  are  well 
withered,  and  then  they  will  be  taken  away  to 
make  room  for  the  scarlet  geraniums  that  are  to 
occupy  these  two  beds  in  the  summer  and  flare 
in  the  sun  as  much  as  they  like.  I  love  an  oc- 
casional mass  of  fiery  colour,  and  these  two  will 
make  the  lilies  look  even  whiter  and  more  breath- 
less that  are  to  stand  sentinel  round  the  semi- 
circle containing  the  precious  tea  roses. 

The  first  two  years  I  had  this  garden,  I  was 
determined  to  do  exactly  as  I  chose  in  it,  and  to 
have  no  arrangements  of  plants  that  I  had  not 
planned,  and  no  plants  but  those  I  knew  and  loved; 


12  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

so,  fearing  that  an  experienced  gardener  would 
profit  by  my  ignorance,  then  about  as  absolute  as 
it  could  be,  and  thrust  all  his  bedding  nightmares 
upon  me,  and  fill  the  place  with  those  dreadful 
salad  arrangements  so  often  seen  in  the  gardens  of 
the  indifferent  rich,  I  would  only  have  a  meek  man 
of  small  pretensions,  who  would  be  easily  persuaded 
that  I  knew  as  much  as,  or  more  than,  he  did  himself. 
I  had  three  of  these  meek  men  one  after  the  other, 
and  learned  what  I  might  long  ago  have  discovered, 
that  the  less  a  person  knows,  the  more  certain  he 
is  that  he  is  right,  and  that  no  weapons  yet  in- 
vented are  of  any  use  in  a  struggle  with  stupidity. 
The  first  of  these  three  went  melancholy  mad  at 
the  end  of  a  year ;  the  second  was  love-sick,  and 
threw  down  his  tools  and  gave  up  his  situation  to 
wander  after  the  departed  siren  who  had  turned 
his  head ;  the  third,  when  I  inquired  how  it  was 
that  the  things  he  had  sown  never  by  any  chance 
came  up,  scratched  his  head,  and  as  this  is  a  sure 
sign  of  ineptitude,  I  sent  him  away. 

Then  I  sat  down  and  thought.  I  had  been 
here  two  years  and  worked  hard,  through  these 
men,  at  the  garden ;  I  had  done  my  best  to 
learn  all  I  could  and  make  it  beautiful ;  I  had 
refused  to  have  more  than   an  inferior  gardener 


MAY  13 

because  of  his  supposed  more  perfect  obedience, 
and  one  assistant,  because  of  my  desire  to  enjoy 
the  garden  undisturbed ;  I  had  studied  diligently 
all  the  gardening  books  I  could  lay  hands  on  ; 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  I  am  an  ordina- 
rily intelligent  person,  and  that  if  an  ordinarily 
intelligent  person  devotes  his  whole  time  to 
studying  a  subject  he  loves,  success  is  very 
probable ;  and  yet  at  the  end  of  two  years  what 
was  my  garden  like  ?  The  failures  of  the  first 
two  summers  had  been  regarded  with  philosophy ; 
but  that  third  summer  I  used  to  go  into  it  some- 
times and  cry. 

As  far  as  I  was  concerned  I  had  really  learned 
a  little,  and  knew  what  to  buy,  and  had  fairly 
correct  notions  as  to  when  and  in  what  soil  to 
sow  and  plant  what  I  had  bought ;  but  of 
what  use  is  it  to  buy  good  seeds  and  plants  and 
bulbs  if  you  are  forced  to  hand  them  over  to  a 
gardener  who  listens  with  ill-concealed  impatience 
to  the  careful  directions  you  give  him,  says 
Jawohl  a  great  many  times,  and  then  goes  off 
and  puts  them  in  in  the  way  he  has  always  done, 
which  is  invariably  the  wrong  way  ?  My  hands 
were  tied  because  of  the  unfortunate  circumstance 
of  sex,  or  I   would  gladly  have   changed   places 


14  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

with  him  and  requested  him  to  do  the  talking 
while  I  did  the  planting,  and  as  he  probably 
would  not  have  talked  much  there  would  have 
been  a  distinct  gain  in  the  peace  of  the  world, 
which  would  surely  be  very  materially  increased 
if  women's  tongues  were  tied  instead  of  their 
hands,  and  those  that  want  to  could  work  with 
them  without  collecting  a  crowd.  And  is  it  not 
certain  that  the  more  one's  body  works  the 
fainter  grow  the  waggings  of  one's  tongue  ?  I 
sometimes  literally  ache  with  envy  as  I  watch  the 
men  going  about  their  pleasant  work  in  the  sun- 
shine, turning  up  the  luscious  damp  earth,  raking, 
weeding,  watering,  planting,  cutting  the  grass, 
pruning  the  trees  —  not  a  thing  that  they  do  from 
the  first  uncovering  of  the  roses  in  the  spring  to 
the  November  bonfires  but  fills  my  soul  with 
longing  to  be  up  and  doing  it  too.  A  great 
many  things  will  have  to  happen,  however,  before 
such  a  state  of  popular  large-mindedness  as  will 
allow  of  my  digging  without  creating  a  sensation 
is  reached,  so  I  have  plenty  of  time  for  further 
grumblings  ;  only  I  do  very  much  wish  that  the 
tongues  inhabiting  this  apparently  lonely  and 
deserted  countryside  would  restrict  their  comments 
to  the  sins,  if  any,  committed  by  the  indigenous 


MAY  15 

females  (since  sins  are  fair  game  for  comment) 
and  leave  their  harmless  eccentricities  alone. 
After  having  driven  through  vast  tracts  of  forest 
and  heath  for  hours,  and  never  meeting  a  soul 
or  seeing  a  house,  it  is  surprising  to  be  told  that 
on  such  a  day  you  took  such  a  drive  and  were 
at  such  a  spot ;  yet  this  has  happened  to  me 
more  than  once.  And  if  even  this  is  watched 
and  noted,  with  what  lightning  rapidity  would 
the  news  spread  that  1  had  been  seen  stalking 
down  the  garden  path  with  a  hoe  over  my 
shoulder  and  a  basket  in  my  hand,  and  weeding 
written  large  on  every  feature !  Yet  I  should 
love  to  weed. 

I  think  it  was  the  way  the  weeds  flourished 
that  put  an  end  at  last  to  my  hesitations  about 
taking  an  experienced  gardener  and  giving  him 
a  reasonable  number  of  helpers,  for  I  found  that 
much  as  I  enjoyed  privacy,  I  yet  detested  nettles 
more,  and  the  nettles  appeared  reallv  to  pick  out 
those  places  to  grow  in  Vv'here  my  sweetest  things 
were  planted,  and  utterly  defied  the  three  meek 
men  when  they  made  periodical  and  feeble  efforts 
to  get  rid  of  them.  I  have  a  large  heart  in  regard 
to  things  that  grow,  and  many  a  weed  that  would 
not  be  tolerated  anywhere  else  is  allowed  to  live 


i6  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

and  multiply  undisturbed  in  my  garden.  The) 
are  such  pretty  things,  some  of  them,  such 
charmingly  audacious  things,  and  it  is  so  par- 
ticularly nice  of  them  to  do  all  their  growing, 
and  flowering,  and  seed-bearing  without  any  help 
or  any  encouragement.  I  admit  I  feel  vexed  if 
they  are  so  officious  as  to  push  up  among  my 
tea  roses  and  pansies,  and  I  also  prefer  my  paths 
without  them ;  but  on  the  grass,  for  instance, 
why  not  let  the  poor  little  creatures  enjoy  them- 
selves quietly,  instead  of  going  out  with  a  dread- 
ful instrument  and  viciously  digging  them  up  one 
by  one  ?  Once  I  went  into  the  garden  just  as  the 
last  of  the  three  inept  ones  had  taken  up  his  stand, 
armed  with  this  implement,  in  the  middle  of  the 
sheet  of  gold  and  silver  that  is  known  for  con- 
venience' sake  as  the  lawn,  and  was  scratching  his 
head,  as  he  looked  round,  in  a  futile  efibrt  to  de- 
cide where  he  should  begin.  I  saved  the  dande- 
lions and  daisies  on  that  occasion,  and  I  like  to 
believe  they  know  it.  They  certainly  look  very 
jolly  when  I  come  out,  and  I  rather  fancy  the  dan- 
delions dig  each  other  in  their  little  ribs  when  they 
see  me,  and  whisper,  "  Here  comes  Elizabeth ;  she's 
a  good  sort,  ain't  she  ?  "  —  for  of  course  dande- 
lions do  not  express  themselves  very  elegantly. 


MAY  17 

But  nettles  are  not  to  be  tolerated.  They 
settled  the  question  on  which  I  had  been  turning 
my  back  for  so  long,  and  one  fine  August  morn- 
ing, when  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  in  the  garden 
but  nettles,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  we  had 
ever  been  doing  anything  but  carefully  cultivating 
them  in  all  their  varieties,  I  walked  into  the  Man 
of  Wrath's  den. 

"My  dear  man,"  I  began,  in  the  small  caressing 
voice  of  one  who  has  long  been  obstinate  and  is  in 
the  act  of  giving  in,  "will  you  kindlv  advertise 
for  a  head  gardener  and  a  proper  number  of 
assistants  ?  Nearly  all  the  bulbs  and  seeds  and 
plants  I  have  squandered  my  money  and  my 
hopes  on  have  turned  out  to  be  nettles,  and  I 
don't  like  them.  I  have  had  a  wretched  summer, 
and  never  want  to  see  a  meek  gardener  again." 

"  My  dear  Elizabeth,"  he  replied,  "  I  regret 
that  you  did  not  take  my  advice  sooner.  How 
often  have  I  pointed  out  the  folly  of  engaging  one 
incapable  person  after  the  other?  The  vegetables, 
when  we  get  any,  are  uneatable,  and  there  is  never 
any  fruit.  I  do  not  in  the  least  doubt  your  good 
intentions,  but  you  are  wanting  in  judgment. 
When  will  you  learn  to  rely  on  my  experience  ?  " 

I    hung    my    head  ;    for    was    he    not    in    the 


i8  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

pleasant  position  of  being  able  to  say,  "  I  told 
you  so"  ?  — which  indeed  he  has  been  saying  for 
the  last  two  years.  "  I  don't  like  relying,"  I 
murmured,  "  and  have  rather  a  prejudice  against 
somebody  else's  experience.  Please  will  you  send 
the  advertisement  to-day  ?  " 

They  came  in  such  shoals  that  half  the  popula- 
tion must  have  been  head  gardeners  out  of  situa- 
tions. I  took  all  the  likely  ones  round  the  garden, 
and  I  do  not  think  I  ever  spent  a  more  chastening 
week  than  that  week  of  selection.  Their  remarks 
were,  naturally,  of  the  frankest  nature,  as  I  had 
told  them  I  had  had  practically  only  gardeners' 
assistants  since  I  lived  here,  and  they  had  no  idea, 
when  they  were  politely  scoffing  at  some  arrange- 
ment, that  it  happened  to  be  one  of  my  own.  The 
hot-beds  in  the  kitchen  garden  with  which  I  had 
taken  such  pains  were  objects  of  special  derision. 
It  appeared  that  they  were  all  wrong  —  measure- 
ments, preparation,  soil,  manure,  everything  that 
could  be  wrong,  was.  Certainly  the  only  crop  we 
had  from  them  was  weeds.  But  I  began  about 
half  way  through  the  week  to  grow  sceptical, 
because  on  comparing  their  criticisms  I  found 
they  seldom  agreed,  and  so  took  courage  again. 
Finally   I    chose   a   nice,   trim  young  man,  with 


MAY  19 

strikingly  intelligent  eyes  and  quick  movements, 
who  had  shown  himself  less  concerned  with  the 
state  of  chaos  existing  than  with  considerations  of 
what  might  eventually  be  made  of  the  place.  He 
is  very  deaf,  so  he  wastes  no  time  in  words,  and  is 
exceedingly  keen  on  gardening,  and  knows,  as  I 
very  soon  discovered,  a  vast  amount  more  than  I 
do,  in  spite  of  my  three  years'  application.  More- 
over, he  is  filled  with  that  humility  and  eagerness 
to  learn  which  is  only  found  in  those  who  have 
alreadv  learned  more  than  their  neighbours.  He 
enters  into  my  plans  with  enthusiasm,  and  makes 
suggestions  of  his  own,  which,  if  not  always  quite 
in  accordance  with  what  are  perhaps  my  peculiar 
tastes,  at  least  plainly  show  that  he  understands 
his  business.  We  had  a  very  busy  winter  together 
altering  all  the  beds,  for  they  none  of  them  had 
been  given  a  soil  in  which  plants  could  grow,  and 
next  autumn  I  intend  to  have  all  the  so-called 
lawns  dug  up  and  levelled,  and  shall  see  whether 
I  cannot  have  decent  turf  here.  I  told  him  he 
must  save  the  daisy  and  dandelion  roots,  and  he 
looked  rather  crestfallen  at  that,  but  he  is  young, 
and  can  learn  to  like  what  I  like,  and  get  rid  of 
his  only  fault,  a  nursery-gardener  attitude  towards 
all  flowers  that  are  not  the  fashion.     "  I  shall  want 


20  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

a  great  many  daffodils  next  spring,"  I  shouted  one 
day  at  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance. 

His  eyes  gleamed.  "  Ah  yes,"  he  said  with 
immediate  approval,  "  they  are  sehr  modern^ 

I  was  divided  between  amusement  at  the  notion  of 
Spenser's  daffadowndillies  being  modern,  and  indig- 
nation at  hearing  exactly  the  same  adjective  applied 
to  them  that  the  woman  who  sells  me  my  hats  be- 
stows on  the  most  appalling  examples  of  her  stock. 

"  They  are  to  be  in  troops  on  the  grass,"  I 
said  ;  whereupon  his  face  grew  doubtful.  "  That 
is  indeed  sehr  modern,''  I  shouted.  But  he  had 
grown  suddenly  deafer  —  a  phenomenon  I  have 
observed  to  occur  every  time  my  orders  are  such 
as  he  has  never  been  given  before.  After  a  time 
he  will,  I  think,  become  imbued  with  my  unortho- 
doxy  in  these  matters  ;  and  meanwhile  he  has  the 
true  gardening  spirit  and  loves  his  work,  and  love, 
after  all,  is  the  chief  thing.  I  know  of  no  compost 
so  good.  In  the  poorest  soil,  love  alone,  by  itself, 
will  work  wonders. 

Down  the  garden  path,  past  the  copse  of  lilacs 
with  their  swelling  dark  buds,  and  the  great  three- 
cornered  bed  of  tea  roses  and  pansies  in  front  of 
it,  between  the  rows  of  china  roses  and  past  the 
lily  and  foxglove  groups,  we  came  last  night  to 


MAY  21 

the  spring  garden  in  the  open  glade  round  the  old 
oak  ;  and  there,  the  first  to  flower  of  the  flowering 
trees,  and  standing  out  like  a  lovely  white  naked 
thing  against  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  was  a  double 
cherry  in  full  bloom,  while  close  beside  it,  but  not 
so  visible  so  late,  with  all  their  graceful  growth 
outHned  by  rosy  buds,  were  two  Japanese  crab 
apples.  The  grass  just  there  is  filled  with  nar- 
cissus, and  at  the  foot  of  the  oak  a  colony  of 
tulips  consoles  me  for  the  loss  of  the  purple  crocus 
patches,  so  lovely  a  little  while  since. 

"  I  must  be  by  myself  for  once  a  whole  summer 
through,"  I  repeated,  looking  round  at  these  things 
with  a  feeling  of  hardly  being  able  to  bear  their 
beauty,  and  the  beauty  of  the  starry  sky,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  silence  and  the  scent  —  "  I  must  be 
alone,  so  that  I  shall  not  miss  one  of  these  wonders, 
and  have  leisure  really  to  //lv." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,"  replied  the  Man  of 
Wrath,  "  only  do  not  grumble  afterwards  when 
you  find  it  dull.  You  shall  be  solitary  if  you 
choose,  and,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  will  invite 
no  one.  It  is  always  best  to  allow  a  woman  to  do 
as  she  likes  if  vou  can,  and  it  saves  a  good  deal  of 
bother.  To  have  what  she  desired  is  generally  an 
effective  punishment." 


22  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  Dear  Sage,"  I  cried,  slipping  my  hand  through 
his  arm,  "  don't  be  so  wise  !  I  promise  you  that 
I  won't  be  dull,  and  I  won't  be  punished,  and  I 
will  be  happy." 

And  we  sauntered  slowly  back  to  the  house  in 
great  contentment,  discussing  the  firmament  and 
such  high  things,  as  though  we  knew  all  about 
them. 


May  I  c^th.  —  There  is  a  dip  in  the  rye-fields 
about  half  a  mile  from  my  garden  gate,  a  little 
round  hollow  like  a  dimple,  with  water  and  reeds 
at  the  bottom,  and  a  few  water-loving  trees  and 
bushes  on  the  shelving  ground  around.  Here  I 
have  been  nearly  every  morning  lately,  for  it  suits 
the  mood  I  am  in,  and  I  like  the  narrow  footpath 
to  it  through  the  rye,  and  I  like  its  solitary  damp- 
ness in  a  place  where  everything  is  parched,  and 
when  I  am  lying  on  the  grass  and  look  down  I 
can  see  the  reeds  glistening  greenly  in  the  water, 
and  when  I  look  up  I  can  see  the  rye-fringe 
brushing  the  sky.  All  sorts  of  beasts  come  and 
stare  at  me,  and  larks  sing  above  me,  and  creeping 
things  crawl  over  me,  and  stir  in  the  long  grass 
beside  me ;  and  here  I  bring  my  book,  and  read 


MAY  23 

and  dream  awav  the  profitable  morning  hours,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  amorous  croakings  of 
innumerable  frogs. 

Thoreau  has  been  my  companion  for  some 
days  past,  it  having  struck  me  as  more  appropriate 
to  bring  him  out  to  a  pond  than  to  read  him,  as 
was  hitherto  my  habit,  on  Sunday  mornings  in 
the  garden.  He  is  a  person  who  loves  the  open 
air,  and  will  refuse  to  give  you  much  pleasure  if 
you  try  to  read  him  amid  the  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  upholstery ;  but  out  in  the  sun,  and 
especially  by  this  pond,  he  is  delightful,  and  we 
spend  the  happiest  hours  together,  he  making 
statements,  and  I  either  agreeing  heartily,  or  just 
laughing  and  reserving  my  opinion  till  I  shall 
have  more  ripely  considered  the  thing.  He,  of 
course,  does  not  like  me  as  much  as  I  like  him, 
because  I  live  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  germs  pro- 
duced by  wilful  superfluity  of  furniture,  and  have 
not  the  courage  to  get  a  match  and  set  light  to 
it  :  and  every  day  he  sees  the  door-mat  on  which 
I  wipe  my  shoes  on  going  into  the  house,  in 
defiance  of  his  having  told  me  that  he  had  once 
refused  the  offer  of  one  on  the  ground  that  it  is 
best  to  avoid  even  the  beginnings  of  evil.  But 
my  philosophy  has  not  yet  reached  the  acute  stage 


24  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

that  will  enable  me  to  see  a  door-mat  In  its  true 
character  as  a  hinderer  of  the  development  of 
souls,  and  I  like  to  wipe  my  shoes.  Perhaps  if 
I  had  to  liv^e  with  few  servants,  or  if  it  were 
possible,  short  of  existence  in  a  cave,  to  do  with- 
out them  altogether,  I  should  also  do  without 
door-mats,  and  probably  in  summer  without  shoes 
too,  and  wipe  my  feet  on  the  grass  nature  no 
doubt  provides  for  this  purpose  ;  and  meanwhile 
we  know  that  though  he  went  to  the  woods, 
Thoreau  came  back  again,  and  lived  for  the  rest 
of  his  days  like  other  people.  During  his  life,  I 
imagine  he  would  have  refused  to  notice  anything 
so  fatiguing  as  an  ordinary  German  woman,  and 
never  would  have  deigned  discourse  to  me  on  the 
themes  he  loved  best ;  but  now  his  spirit  belongs 
to  me,  and  all  he  thought,  and  believed,  and  felt, 
and  he  talks  as  much  and  as  intimately  to  me  here 
in  my  solitude  as  ever  he  did  to  his  dearest  friends 
years  ago  in  Concord.  In  the  garden  he  was  a 
pleasant  companion,  but  in  the  lonely  dimple  he 
is  fascinating,  and  the  morning  hours  hurry  past 
at  a  quite  surprising  rate  when  he  is  with  me,  and 
it  grieves  me  to  be  obliged  to  interrupt  him  in 
the  middle  of  some  quaint  sentence  or  beautiful 
thought  just  because  the  sun  is  touching  a  certain 


MAY  25 

bush  down  by  the  water's  edge,  which  is  a  sign 
that  it  is  lunch-time  and  that  I  must  be  off. 
Back  we  go  together  through  the  rye,  he  carefully 
tucked  under  one  arm,  while  with  the  other  I 
brandish  a  bunch  of  grass  to  keep  off  the  flies  that 
appear  directly  we  emerge  into  the  sunshine. 
"  Oh,  my  dear  Thoreau,"  I  murmur  sometimes, 
overcome  by  the  fierce  heat  of  the  little  path 
at  noonday  and  the  persistence  of  the  flies,  "  did 
you  have  flies  at  Walden  to  exasperate  you  ? 
And  what  became  of  your  philosophy  then  ?  " 
But  he  never  notices  my  plaints,  and  I  know  that 
inside  his  covers  he  is  discoursing  away  like  any- 
thing on  the  folly  of  allowing  oneself  to  be  over- 
whelmed in  that  terrible  rapid  and  whirlpool 
called  a  dinner,  which  is  situated  in  the  meridian 
shallows,  and  of  the  necessity,  if  one  would  keep 
happy,  of  sailing  by  it  looking  another  way,  tied 
to  the  mast  like  Ulysses.  But  he  gets  grimly 
carried  back  for  all  that,  and  is  taken  into  the 
house  and  put  on  his  shelf  and  left  there,  because 
I  still  happen  to  have  a  body  attached  to  my 
spirit,  which,  if  not  fed  at  the  ordinary  time, 
becomes  a  nuisance.  Yet  he  is  right ;  luncheon 
is  a  snare  of  the  tempter,  and  I  would  perhaps  try 
to  sail  by  it  like  Ulysses  if  I  had  a  biscuit  in  my 


26  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

pocket  to  comfort  me,  but  there  are  the  babies  to 
be  fed,  and  the  Man  of  Wrath,  and  how  can  a 
respectable  wife  and  mother  sail  past  any  meridian 
shallows  in  which  those  dearest  to  her  have  stuck? 
So  I  stand  by  them,  and  am  punished  every  day 
by  that  two-o'clock-in-the-afternoon  feeling  to 
which  I  so  much  object,  and  yet  cannot  avoid. 
It  is  mortifying,  after  the  sunshiny  morning 
hours  at  my  pond,  when  I  feel  as  though  I  were 
almost  a  poet,  and  very  nearly  a  philosopher,  and 
wholly  a  joyous  animal  in  an  ecstasy  of  love  with 
life,  to  come  back  and  live  through  those  dreary 
luncheon-ridden  hours,  when  the  soul  is  crushed 
out  of  sight  and  sense  by  cutlets  and  asparagus 
and  revengeful  sweet  things.  My  morning  friend 
turns  his  back  on  me  when  I  reenter  the  Ubrary ; 
nor  do  I  ever  touch  him  in  the  afternoon.  Books 
have  their  idiosyncrasies  as  well  as  people,  and 
will  not  show  me  their  full  beauties  unless  the 
place  and  time  in  which  they  are  read  suits  them. 
If,  for  instance,  I  cannot  read  Thoreau  in  a 
drawing-room,  how  much  less  would  I  ever  dream 
of  reading  Boswell  in  the  grass  by  a  pond ! 
Imagine  carrying  him  off  in  company  with  his 
great  friend  to  a  lonely  dell  in  a  rye-field,  and  ex- 
pecting them  to  be  entertaining.     "  Nay,  my  dear 


MAY  27 

lady,"  the  great  man  would  say  in  mighty  tones 
of  rebuke,  "  this  will  never  do.  Lie  in  a  rye- 
field  ?  What  folly  is  that  ?  And  who  would 
converse  in  a  damp  hollow  that  can  help  it  ?  " 
So  I  read  and  laugh  over  my  Boswell  in  the 
library  when  the  lamps  are  lit,  buried  in  cushions 
and  surrounded  by  every  sign  of  civilisation,  with 
the  drawn  curtains  shutting  out  the  garden  and 
the  country  solitude  so  much  disliked  by  both 
sage  and  disciple.  Indeed,  it  is  Bozzy  who  asserts 
that  in  the  country  the  only  things  that  make  one 
happy  are  meals.  "  I  was  happy,"  he  says,  when 
stranded  at  a  place  called  Corrichatachin  in  the 
Island  of  Skye,  and  unable  to  get  out  of  it  because 
of  the  rain,  —  "  I  was  happy  when  tea  came.  Such 
I  take  it  is  the  state  of  those  who  live  in  the 
country.  Meals  are  wished  for  from  the  cravings 
of  vacuity  of  mind,  as  well  as  from  the  desire  of 
eating."  And  such  is  the  perverseness  of  human 
nature  that  Boswell's  wisdom  delights  me  even 
more  than  Johnson's,  though  I  love  them  both 
very  heartily. 

In  the  afternoon  I  potter  in  the  garden  with 
Goethe.  He  did  not,  I  am  sure,  care  much  really 
about  flowers  and  gardens,  yet  he  said  many  lovely 
things  about  them  that  remain  in  one's  memory 


28  THE   SOLITARY  SUMMER 

just  as  persistently  as  though  they  had  been 
inspired  expressions  of  actual  feelings  ;  and  the 
intellect  must  indeed  have  been  gigantic  that  could 
so  beautifully  pretend.  Ordinary  blunderers  have 
to  feel  a  vast  amount  before  they  can  painfully 
stammer  out  a  sentence  that  will  describe  it;  and 
when  they  have  got  it  out,  how  it  seems  to  have 
just  missed  the  core  of  the  sensation  that  gave  it 
birth,  and  what  a  poor,  weak  child  it  is  of  what 
was  perhaps  a  mighty  feeling !  I  read  Goethe 
on  a  special  seat,  never  departed  from  when  he 
accompanies  me,  a  seat  on  the  south  side  of  an 
ice-house,  and  thus  sheltered  from  the  north  winds 
sometimes  prevalent  in  May,  and  shaded  by  the 
low-hanging  branches  of  a  great  beech-tree  from 
more  than  flickering  sunshine.  Through  these 
branches  I  can  see  a  group  of  giant  poppies  just 
coming  into  flower,  flaming  out  beyond  the  trees 
on  the  grass,  and  farther  down  a  huge  silver 
birch,  its  first  spring  green  not  yet  deepened  out 
of  delicacy,  and  looking  almost  golden  backed  by 
a  solemn  cluster  of  firs.  Here  I  read  Goethe  — 
everything  I  have  of  his,  both  what  is  well  known 
and  what  is  not ;  here  I  shed  invariable  tears  over 
JVerther,  however  often  I  read  it ;  here  I  wade 
through  Wilhelm  Meister^  and  sit  in  amazement 


MAY  29 

before  the  complications  of  the  Wahlverwand- 
schaften;  here  I  am  plunged  in  wonder  and 
wretchedness  by  Faust;  and  here  I  sometimes 
walk  up  and  down  in  the  shade  and  apostrophise 
the  tall  firs  at  the  bottom  of  the  glade  in  the 
opening  soliloquy  of  Iphigenia.  Every  now  and 
then  I  leave  the  book  on  the  seat  and  go  and 
have  a  refreshing  potter  among  my  flower  beds, 
from  which  I  return  greatly  benefited,  and  with  a 
more  just  conception  of  what,  in  this  world,  is 
worth  bothering  about,  and  what  is  not. 

In  the  evening,  when  everything  is  tired  and 
quiet,  I  sit  with  Walt  Whitman  by  the  rose  beds 
and  listen  to  what  that  lonely  and  beautiful  spirit 
has  to  tell  me  of  night,  sleep,  death,  and  the  stars. 
This  dusky,  silent  hour  is  his;  and  this  is  the  time 
when  I  can  best  hear  the  beatings  of  that  most 
tender  and  generous  heart.  Such  great  love,  such 
rapture  of  jubilant  love  for  nature,  and  the  good 
green  grass,  and  trees,  and  clouds,  and  sunlight ; 
such  aching  anguish  of  love  for  all  that  breathes 
and  is  sick  and  sorry  ;  such  passionate  longing  to 
help  and  mend  and  comfort  that  which  never  can 
be  helped  and  mended  and  comforted;  such  eager 
looking  to  death,  delicate  death,  as  the  one  com- 
plete and  final  consolation — before  this  revelation 


30  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

of  yearning,  universal  pity,  every-day  selfishness 
stands  awe-struck  and  ashamed. 

When  I  drive  in  the  forests,  Keats  goes  with 
me  ;  and  if  I  extend  my  drive  to  the  Baltic  shores, 
and  spend  the  afternoon  on  the  moss  beneath  the 
pines  whose  pink  stems  form  the  framework  of  the 
sea,  I  take  Spenser ;  and  presently  the  blue  waves 
are  the  ripples  of  the  Idle  Lake,  and  a  tiny  white 
sail  in  the  distance  is  Phaedria's  shallow  ship,  bear- 
ing Cymochles  swiftly  away  to  her  drowsy  Httle  nest 
of  delights.  How  can  I  tell  why  Keats  has  never 
been  brought  here,  and  why  Spenser  is  brought 
again  and  again  ?  Who  shall  follow  the  dark 
intricacies  of  the  elementary  female  mind  ?  It 
is  safer  not  to  attempt  to  do  so,  but  by  simply 
cataloguing  them  collectively  under  the  heading 
Instinct,  have  done  with  them  once  and  for  all. 

What  a  blessing  it  is  to  love  books.  Every- 
body must  love  something,  and  I  know  of  no 
objects  of  love  that  give  such  substantial  and 
unfailing  returns  as  books  and  a  garden.  And 
how  easy  it  would  have  been  to  come  into  the 
world  without  this,  and  possessed  instead  of  an 
all-consuming  passion,  say,  for  hats,  perpetu- 
ally raging  round  my  empty  soul !  I  feel  I  owe 
my  forefathers  a  debt  of  gratitude,  for  I  suppose 


MAY  31 

the  explanation  is  that  they  too  did  not  care  for 
hats.  In  the  centre  of  my  library  there  is  a  wooden 
pillar  propping  up  the  ceiling,  and  preventing  it, 
so  I  am  told,  from  tumbling  about  our  ears  ;  and 
round  this  pillar,  from  floor  to  ceiHng,  I  have  had 
shelves  fixed,  and  on  these  shelves  are  all  the  books 
that  I  have  read  again  and  again,  and  hope  to  read 
many  times  more  —  all  the  books,  that  is,  that  I 
love  quite  the  best.  In  the  bookcases  round  the 
walls  are  many  that  I  love,  but  here  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  easiest  to  get  at,  are  those  I  love 
the  best  —  the  very  elect  among  my  favourites. 
They  change  from  time  to  time  as  I  get  older,  and 
with  years  some  that  are  in  the  bookcases  come 
here,  and  some  that  are  here  go  into  the  book- 
cases, and  some  again  are  removed  altogether,  and 
are  placed  on  certain  shelves  in  the  drawing-room 
which  are  reserved  for  those  that  have  been  weighed 
in  the  balance  and  found  wanting,  and  from 
whence  they  seldom,  if  ever,  return.  Carlyle  used 
to  be  among  the  elect.  That  was  years  ago,  when 
my  hair  was  very  long,  and  my  skirts  very  short, 
and  I  sat  in  the  paternal  groves  with  Sartor 
Resartus,  and  felt  full  of  wisdom  and  Weltschmer%  ; 
and  even  after  I  was  married,  when  we  lived  in 
town,  and  the  noise  of  his  thunderings  was  almost 


32  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

drowned  by  the  rattle  of  droschkies  over  the 
stones  in  the  street  below,  he  still  shone  forth 
a  bright,  particular  star.  Now,  whether  it  is 
age  creeping  upon  me,  or  whether  it  is  that  the 
country  is  very  still  and  sound  carries,  or  whether 
my  ears  have  grown  sensitive,  I  know  not ;  but 
the  moment  I  open  him  there  rushes  out  such  a 
clatter  of  denunciation,  and  vehemence,  and  wrath, 
that  I  am  completely  deafened  ;  and  as  I  easily  get 
bewildered,  and  love  peace,  and  my  chief  aim  is  to 
follow  the  apostle's  advice  and  study  to  be  quiet, 
he  has  been  degraded  from  his  high  position  round 
the  pillar  and  has  gone  into  retirement  against  the 
wall,  where  the  accident  of  alphabet  causes  him 
to  rest  in  the  soothing  society  of  one  Carina,  a 
harmless  gentleman,  whose  book  on  the  Bagni  di 
Lucca  is  on  his  left,  and  a  Frenchman  of  the  name 
of  Charlemagne,  whose  soporific  comedy  written  at 
the  beginning  of  the  century  and  called  Le  'Testa- 
ment de  f  Oncle^  ou  Les  Lunettes  Cassees^  is  next  to 
him  on  his  right.  Two  works  of  his  still  remain, 
however,  among  the  elect,  though  differing  in 
glory  —  his  Frederick  the  Great ^  fascinating  for 
obvious  reasons  to  the  patriotic  German  mind,  and 
his  Life  of  Sterlings  a  quiet  book  on  the  whole,  a 
record  of  an  uneventful  life,  in  which  the  natural 


MAY  33 

positions  of  subject  and  biographer  are  reversed, 
the  man  of  genius  writing  the  hfe  of  the  unim- 
portant friend,  and  the  fact  that  the  friend  was 
exceedingly  lovable  in  no  way  lessening  one's  dis- 
comfort in  the  face  of  such  an  anomaly.  Carlyle 
stands  on  an  eminence  altogether  removed  from 
Sterling,  who  stands,  indeed,  on  no  eminence  at 
all,  unless  it  be  an  eminence,  that  (happily)  crowded 
bit  of  ground,  where  the  bright  and  courageous 
and  lovable  stand  together.  We  Germans  have  all 
heard  of  Carlyle,  and  many  of  us  have  read  him 
with  due  amazement,  our  admiration  often  inter- 
rupted by  groans  at  the  difficulties  his  style  places 
in  the  candid  foreigner's  path ;  but  without  Car- 
lyle which  of  us  would  ever  have  heard  of  Sterling  ? 
And  even  in  this  comparatively  placid  book 
mines  of  the  accustomed  vehemence  are  sprung 
on  the  shrinking  reader.  To  the  prosaic  German, 
nourished  on  a  literature  free  from  thunderings 
and  any  marked  acuteness  of  enthusiasm,  Carlyle 
is  an  altogether  astonishing  phenomenon. 

And  here  I  feel  constrained  to  inquire  sternly 
who  I  am  that  I  should  talk  in  this  unbecom- 
ing manner  of  Carlyle  ?  To  which  I  reply  that  I 
am  only  a  humble  German  seeking  after  peace, 
devoid  of  the  least  real  desire  to  criticise  anybody, 


34  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

and  merely  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  way  of 
geniuses  when  they  make  too  much  noise.  All  I 
want  is  to  read  quietly  the  books  that  I  at  present 
prefer.  Carlyle  is  shut  up  now  and  therefore 
silent  on  his  comfortable  shelf;  yet  who  knows 
but  what  in  my  old  age,  when  I  begin  to  feel  really 
young,  I  may  not  once  again  find  comfort  in  him  ? 
What  a  medley  of  books  there  is  round  my 
pillar !  Here  is  Jane  Austen  leaning  against 
Heine  —  what  would  she  have  said  to  that,  I 
wonder?  —  with  Miss  Mitford  and  Cranford  to 
keep  her  in  countenance  on  her  other  side.  Here 
is  my  Goethe,  one  of  many  editions  I  have  of 
him,  the  one  that  has  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  ice-house  and  the  poppies.  Here  are  Ruskin, 
Lubbock,  White's  Selborne^  Izaak  Walton,  Drum- 
mond,  Herbert  Spencer  (only  as  much  of  him  as  I 
hope  I  understand  and  am  afraid  I  do  not),  Walter 
Pater,  Matthew  Arnold,  Thoreau,  Lewis  Carroll, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Hawthorne,  Wuthering 
Heights^  Lamb's  Essays^  Johnson's  Lives^  Marcus 
Aurelius,  Montaigne,  Gibbon,  the  immortal  Pepys, 
the  egregious  Boswell,  various  American  children's 
books  that  I  loved  as  a  child  and  read  and  love 
to  this  day ;  various  French  children's  books, 
loved  for  the  same  reason  ;  whole  rows  of  German 


MAY 


35 


children's  books,  on  which  I  was  brought  up,  with 
their  charming  woodcuts  of  quaint  little  children 
in  laced  bodices,  and  good  housemothers  cutting 
bread  and  butter,  and  descriptions  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  fearful  innocence  and  pure  religion  and 
swift  judgments  and  rewards  in  which  they  lived, 
and  how  the  Finger  Gottes  was  impressed  on  every- 
thing that  happened  to  them  ;  all  the  poets ;  most 
of  the  dramatists ;  and,  I  verily  believe,  every 
gardening  book  and  book  about  gardens  that  has 
been  published  of  late  years. 

These  gardening  books  are  an  unfailing  delight, 
especially  in  winter,  when  to  sit  by  my  blazing 
peat  fire  with  the  snow  driving  past  the  windows 
and  read  the  luscious  descriptions  of  roses  and  all 
the  other  summer  glories  is  one  of  my  greatest 
pleasures.  And  then  how  well  I  get  to  know  and 
love  those  gardens  whose  gradual  development  has 
been  described  by  their  owners,  and  how  happily 
I  wander  in  fancy  down  the  paths  of  certain 
specially  charming  ones  in  Lancashire,  Berkshire, 
Surrey,  and  Kent,  and  admire  the  beautiful 
arrangement  of  bed  and  border,  and  the  charming 
bits  in  unexpected  corners,  and  all  the  evidences 
of  untiring  love  !  Any  book  I  see  advertised  that 
treats  of  gardens  I  immediately  buy,   and  thus 


36  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

possess  quite  a  collection  of  fascinating  and  in- 
structive garden  literature.  A  few  are  feeble,  and 
get  shunted  off  into  the  drawing-room  ;  but  the 
others  stay  with  me  winter  and  summer,  and  soon 
lose  the  gloss  of  their  new  coats,  and  put  on  the 
comfortable  look  of  old  friends  in  every-day 
clothes,  under  the  frequent  touch  of  affection. 
They  are  such  special  friends  that  I  can  hardly 
pass  them  without  a  nod  and  a  smile  at  the  well- 
known  covers,  each  of  which  has  some  pleasant 
association  of  time  and  place  to  make  it  still  more 
dear. 

My  spirit  too  has  wandered  in  one  or  two 
French  gardens,  but  has  not  yet  heard  of  a  Ger- 
man one  loved  beyond  everything  by  its  owner. 
It  is,  of  course,  possible  that  my  countrymen  do 
love  them  and  keep  quiet  about  them,  but  many 
things  are  possible  that  are  not  probable,  and 
experience  compels  me  to  the  opinion  that  this  is 
one  of  them.  We  have  the  usual  rich  man  who 
has  fine  gardens  laid  out  regardless  of  expense, 
but  those  are  not  gardens  in  the  sense  I  mean ; 
and  we  have  the  poor  man  with  his  bit  of  ground, 
hardly  ever  treated  otherwise  than  as  a  fowl-run 
or  a  place  dedicated  to  potatoes ;  and  as  for  the 
middle  class,  it  is  too  busy  hurrying  through  life 


MAY  37 

to  have  time  or  inclination  to  stop  and  plant  a 
rose. 

How  glad  I  am  I  need  not  hurry.  What  a 
waste  of  life,  just  getting  and  spending.  Sitting 
by  my  pansy  beds,  with  the  slow  clouds  floating 
leisurely  past,  and  all  the  clear  day  before  me,  I 
look  on  at  the  hot  scramble  for  the  pennies  of 
existence  and  am  lost  in  wonder  at  the  vulgarity 
that  pushes,  and  cringes,  and  tramples,  untiring 
and  unabashed.  And  when  you  have  got  your 
pennies,  what  then  ?  They  are  only  pennies,  after 
all  —  unpleasant,  battered  copper  things,  without 
a  gold  piece  among  them,  and  never  worth  the 
degradation  of  self,  and  the  hatred  of  those  below 
you  who  have  fewer,  and  the  derision  of  those 
above  you  who  have  more.  And  as  1  perceive  I 
am  growing  wise,  and  what  is  even  worse,  alle- 
gorical, and  as  these  are  tendencies  to  be  fought 
against  as  long  as  possible,  I'll  go  into  the  garden 
and  play  with  the  babies,  who  at  this  moment  are 
sitting  in  a  row  on  the  buttercups,  singing  what 
appear  to  be  selections  from  popular  airs. 


J' 


une 


JUNE 


June  jrd.  —  The  Man  of  Wrath,  I  observe,  is 
laying  traps  for  me  and  being  deep.  He  has 
prophesied  that  I  will  find  solitude  intolerable, 
and  he  is  naturally  desirous  that  his  prophecy 
should  be  fulfilled.  He  knows  that  continuous 
rain  depresses  me,  and  he  is  awaiting  a  spell 
of  it  to  bring  me  to  a  confession  that  I  was 
wrong  after  all,  whereupon  he  will  make  that 
remark  so  precious  to  the  married  heart,  "  My 
dear,  I  told  you  so."  He  begins  the  day  by 
tapping  the  barometer,  looking  at  the  sky,  and 
shaking  his  head.  If  there  are  any  clouds  he 
remarks  that  they  are  coming  up,  and  if  there  are 
none  he  says  it  is  too  fine  to  last.  He  has  even 
gone  the  length  once  or  twice  of  starting  off  to 
the  farm  on  hot,  sunny  mornings  in  his  mackintosh, 

41 


42  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

in  order  to  impress  on  me  beyond  all  doubt  that 
the  weather  is  breaking  up.  He  studiously  keeps 
out  of  my  way  all  day,  so  that  I  may  have  every 
opportunity  of  being  bored  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  in  the  evenings  he  retires  to  his  den  directly 
after  dinner,  muttering  something  about  letters. 
When  he  has  finally  disappeared,  I  go  out  to  the 
stars  and  laugh  at  his  transparent  wiles. 

But  how  would  it  be  if  we  did  have  a  spell  of 
wet  weather  ?  I  do  not  quite  know.  As  long  as 
it  is  fine,  rainy  days  in  the  future  do  not  seem  so 
very  terrible,  and  one,  or  even  two  really  wet 
ones  are  quite  enjoyable  when  they  do  come  — 
pleasant  times  that  remind  one  of  the  snug  winter 
now  so  far  oflF,  times  of  reading,  and  writing,  and 
paying  one's  bills.  I  never  pay  bills  or  write 
letters  on  fine  summer  days.  Not  for  any  one  will 
I  forego  all  that  such  a  day  rightly  spent  out  of 
doors  might  give  me ;  so  that  a  wet  day  at 
intervals  is  almost  as  necessary  for  me  as  for  my 
garden.  But  how  would  it  be  if  there  were  many 
wet  days  ?  I  believe  a  week  of  steady  drizzle  in 
summer  is  enough  to  make  the  stoutest  heart 
depressed.  It  is  to  be  borne  in  winter  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  turning  your  face  to  the  fire ; 
but  when  you  have  no  fire,  and  very  long  days, 


JUNE  43 

vour  cheerfulness  slowly  slips  away,  and  the  dreari- 
ness prevailing  out  of  doors  comes  in  and  broods 
in  the  blank  corners  of  your  heart.  I  rather 
fancy,  however,  that  it  is  a  waste  of  energv  to 
ponder  over  what  I  should  do  if  we  had  a  wet 
summer  on  such  a  radiant  day  as  this.  I  prefer 
sitting  here  on  the  verandah  and  looking  down 
through  a  frame  of  leaves  at  all  the  rosebuds  June 
has  put  in  the  beds  round  the  sun-dial,  to  ponder 
over  nothing,  and  just  be  glad  that  I  am  alive. 
The  verandah  at  two  o'clock  on  a  summer's  after- 
noon is  a  place  in  which  to  be  happy  and  not 
decide  anything,  as  my  friend  Thoreau  told  me 
of  some  other  tranquil  spot  this  morning.  The 
chairs  are  comfortable,  there  is  a  table  to  write  on, 
and  the  shadows  of  young  leaves  flicker  across  the 
paper.  On  one  side  a  Crimson  Rambler  is  thrust- 
ing inquisitive  shoots  through  the  wooden  bars, 
being  able  this  vear  for  the  first  time  since  it  was 
planted  to  see  what  I  am  doing  up  here,  and  next 
to  it  a  Jackmanni  clematis  clings  with  soft  voung 
fingers  to  anything  it  thinks  likely  to  help  it  up 
to  the  goal  of  its  ambition,  the  roof  I  wonder 
which  of  the  two  will  get  there  first.  Down  there 
in  the  rose  beds,  among  the  hundreds  of  buds  there 
is  only  one  full-blown  rose  as  yet,  a  Ivlarie  van 


44  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

Houtte,  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  tea  roses,  perfect 
in  shape  and  scent  and  colour,  and  in  my  garden 
always  the  first  rose  to  flower  ;  and  the  first  flowers 
it  bears  are  the  loveliest  of  its  own  lovely  flowers, 
as  though  it  felt  that  the  first  of  its  children  to  see 
the  sky  and  the  sun  and  the  familiar  garden  after 
the  winter  sleep  ought  to  put  on  the  very  daintiest 
clothes  they  can  muster  for  such  a  festal  occasion. 
Through  the  open  schoolroom  windows  I  can 
hear  the  two  eldest  babies  at  their  lessons.  The 
village  schoolmaster  comes  over  every  afternoon 
and  teaches  them  for  two  hours,  so  that  we  are 
free  from  governesses  in  the  house,  and  once  those 
two  hours  are  over  they  are  free  for  twenty-four 
from  anything  in  the  shape  of  learning.  The 
schoolroom  is  next  to  the  verandah,  and  as  two 
o'clock  approaches  their  excitement  becomes  more 
and  more  intense,  and  they  flutter  up  and  down 
the  steps,  looking  in  their  white  dresses  like  angels 
on  a  Jacob's  ladder,  or  watch  eagerly  among  the 
bushes  for  a  first  glimpse  of  him,  like  miniature  and 
perfectly  proper  Isoldes.  He  is  a  kind  giant 
with  that  endless  supply  of  patience  so  often 
found  in  giants,  especially  when  they  happen  to 
be  village  schoolmasters,  and  judging  from  the 
amount  of  laughter  I  hear,  the  babies  seem  to  enjoy 


JUNE  45 

their  lessons  in  a  way  they  never  did  before. 
Every  day  they  prepare  bouquets  for  him,  and  he 
gets  more  of  them  than  a  prima  donna,  or  at  any 
rate  a  more  regular  supply.  The  first  day  he 
came  I  was  afraid  they  would  be  very  shy  of  such 
a  big  strange  man,  and  that  he  would  extract 
nothing  from  them  but  tears  ;  but  the  moment  I 
left  them  alone  together  and  as  I  shut  the  door, 
I  heard  them  eagerly  informing  him,  by  way  of 
opening  the  friendship,  that  their  heads  were 
washed  every  Saturday  night,  and  that  their  hair- 
ribbons  did  not  match  because  there  had  not  been 
enough  of  the  one  sort  to  go  round.  I  went  away 
hoping  that  they  would  not  think  it  necessary  to 
tell  him  how  often  my  head  is  washed,  or  any 
other  news  of  a  personal  nature  about  me;  but  I 
believe  by  this  time  that  man  knows  everything 
there  is  to  know  about  the  details  of  my  morning 
toilet,  which  is  daily  watched  with  the  greatest 
interest  by  the  Three.  I  hope  he  will  be  more 
successful  than  I  was  in  teaching  them  Bible 
stories.  I  never  got  farther  than  Noah,  at  which 
stage  their  questions  became  so  searching  as  to 
completely  confound  me ;  and  as  no  one  likes 
being  confounded,  and  it  is  especially  regrettable 
when  a  parent  is  placed    in    such    a    position,  I 


46  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

brought  the  course  to  an  abrupt  end  by  assuming 
that  owl-like  air  of  wisdom  peculiar  to  infallibility 
in  a  corner,  and  telling  them  that  they  were  too 
young  to  understand  these  things  for  the  present; 
and  they,  having  a  touching  faith  in  the  truth  of 
every  word  I  say,  gave  three  contented  little  purrs 
of  assent,  and  proposed  that  we  should  play 
instead  at  rolling  down  the  grass  bank  under  the 
30uth  windows  —  which  I  did  not  do,  I  am  glad 
to  remember. 

But  the  schoolmaster,  after  four  weeks'  teach- 
ing, has  got  them  as  far  as  Moses,  and  safely  past 
the  Noah's  ark  on  which  I  came  to  grief,  and  if 
glibness  is  a  sign  of  knowledge  then  they  have 
learned  the  story  very  thoroughly.  Yesterday, 
after  he  had  gone,  they  emerged  into  the  verandah 
fresh  from  Moses  and  bursting  with  eagerness  to 
tell  me  all  about  it. 

"  Herr  Schenk  told  us  to-day  about  Moses," 
began  the  April  baby,  making  a  rush  at  me. 

"  Oh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  a  b'oser^  baser  Konig  who  said 
every  boy  must  be  deaded,  and  Moses  was  the 
allerliebster." 

"  Talk  English,  my  dear  baby,  and  not  such  a 
dreadful  mixture,"  I  besought. 


JUNE  47 

"  He  wasn't  a  cat." 

"  A  cat  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  wasn't  a  cat,  that  Moses  —  a  boy 
was  he." 

"  But  of  course  he  wasn't  a  cat,"  I  said 
with  some  severity  ;  "  no  one  ever  supposed  he 
was." 

"Yes,  but  mummy,"  she  explained  eagerly, 
with  much  appropriate  hand-action,  "  the  cook's 
Moses  is  a  cat." 

"  Oh,  1  see.     Well  ?  " 

"  And  he  was  put  in  a  basket  in  the  water,  and 
that  did  swim.  And  then  one  time  they  comed, 
and  she  said " 

"  Who  came  ?      And  who  said  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  ladies  ;  and  the  Kbnigstochter  said, 
''Ach  hormal,  da  schreit  so  etwas!  " 

"  In  German  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  then  they  went  near,  and  one 
must  take  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  and  go  in 
the  water  and  fetch  that  tiny  basket,  and  then 
they  made  it  open,  and  that  Kind  did  cry  and  cry 
and  strampel  so  "  —  here  both  the  babies  gave 
such  a  vivid  illustration  of  the  strampeln  that  the 
verandah  shook  —  "  and  see  !  it  is  a  tiny  baby. 
And  they  fetched  somebody  to  give  it  to  eat,  and 


48  THE   SOLITARY   SUiMMER 

the  Konigstochter  can  keep  that  boy,  and  further 
it  doesn't  go." 

"  Do  you  love  Moses,  mummy  ? "  asked  the 
May  baby,  jumping  into  my  lap,  and  taking  my 
face  in  both  her  hands — one  of  the  many  pretty, 
caressing  little  ways  of  a  very  pretty,  caressing 
little  creature. 

"Yes,"  I  replied  bravely,  "I  love  him." 
"Then  I  too!"  they  cried  with  simultaneous 
gladness,  the  seal  having  thus  been  affixed  to  the 
legitimacy  of  their  regard  for  him.  To  be  of 
such  authority  that  your  verdict  on  every  subject 
under  heaven  is  absolute  and  final  is  without 
doubt  to  be  in  a  proud  position,  but,  like  all 
proud  positions,  it  bristles  with  pitfalls  and  draw- 
backs to  the  weak-kneed  ;  and  most  of  my  con- 
versations with  the  babies  end  in  a  sudden  change 
of  subject  made  necessary  by  the  tendency  of 
their  remarks  and  the  unanswerableness  of  their 
arguments.  Happily,  yesterday  the  Moses  talk 
was  brought  to  an  end  by  the  April  baby  herself, 
who  suddenly  remembered  that  I  had  not  yet 
seen  and  sympathised  with  her  dearest  possession, 
a  Dutch  doll  called  Mary  Jane,  since  a  lamentable 
accident  had  bereft  it  of  both  its  legs  ;  and  she 
had  dived  into  the  schoolroom  and  fished  it  out 


JUNE  49 

of  the  dark  corner  reserved  for  the  mangled  and 
thrust  it  in  my  face  before  I  had  well  done 
musing  on  the  nature  and  extent  of  my  love  for 
Moses  —  for  I  try  to  be  conscientious  —  and  brac- 
ing myself  to  meet  the  next  question. 

"  See  this  poor  Mary  Jane,"  she  said,  her  voice 
and  hand  quivering  with  tenderness  as  she  lifted 
its  petticoats  to  show  me  the  full  extent  of  the 
calamitv,  "  see,  mummy,  no  legs  —  only  twowsers 
and  nothing  further." 

I  wish  they  would  speak  English  a  little  better. 
The  pains  I  take  to  correct  them  and  weed  out  the 
German  words  that  crop  up  in  every  sentence  are 
really  untiring,  and  the  results  discouraging.  In- 
deed, as  they  get  older  the  German  asserts  itself 
more  and  more,  and  is  threatening  to  swallow  up 
the  little  English  they  have  left  entirely.  I  talk 
English  steadily  with  them,  but  everybody  else, 
including  a  small  French  nurse  lately  imported, 
nothing  but  German.  Somebody  told  me  the 
thing  to  do  was  to  let  children  pick  up  languages 
when  they  were  babies,  at  which  period  they 
absorb  them  as  easily  as  food  and  drink,  and 
are  quite  unaware  that  they  are  learning  anything 
at  all  ;  whereupon  I  immediately  introduced  this 
French  girl  into  the  family,  forgetting  how  little 


50  THE    SOLITARY   SUiMMER 

English  they  have  absorbed,  and  the  result  has  been 
that  they  pass  their  days  delightfully  in  teaching 
her  German.  They  were  astonished  at  first  on 
discovering  that  she  could  not  understand  a  word 
they  said,  and  soon  set  about  altering  such  an 
uncomfortable  state  of  things  ;  and  as  they  are  three 
to  one  and  very  zealous,  and  she  is  a  meek  little 
person  with  a  profile  like  a  teapot  with  a  twisted 
black  handle  of  hair,  their  success  was  practically 
certain  from  the  beginning,  and  she  is  getting  on 
quite  nicely  with  her  German,  and  has  at  least 
already  thoroughly  learned  all  the  mistakes.  She 
wanders  in  the  garden  with  a  surprised  look  on  her 
face  as  of  one  who  is  moving  about  in  worlds  not 
realised  ;  and  the  three  cling  to  her  skirts  and  give 
her  enthusiastic  lessons  all  day  long. 

Poor  Seraphine  !  What  courage  to  weigh  anchor 
at  eighteen  and  go  into  a  foreign  country,  to  a 
place  where  you  are  among  utter  strangers,  without 
a  friend,  unable  to  speak  a  word  of  the  language, 
and  not  even  sure  before  you  start  whether  you 
will  be  given  enough  to  eat.  Either  it  is  that 
saddest  of  courage  forced  on  the  timid  by  neces- 
sity, or,  as  Doctor  Johnson  would  probably  have 
said,  it  is  stark  insensibility ;  and  I  am  afraid 
when  I  look  at  her  I  silently  agree  with  the  apostle 


JUNE  51 

of  common  sense,  and  take  it  for  granted  that  she 
is   incapable   of  deep   feeling,  for   the   altogether 
inadequate  reason  that  she  has  a  certain   resem- 
blance to  a  teapot.      Now  is  it  not  hard  that  a 
.person  may  have  a  soul  as  beautiful  as  an  angel's,  a 
dwelling-place  for  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies, 
and  if  nature  has  not  thought  fit  to  endow  his  body 
with   a  chin  the  world  will   have  none  of  him  ? 
The  vulgar  prejudice  is  in  favour  of  chins,  and  who 
shall   escape   its   influence  ?     I,   for   one,  cannot, 
though  theoretically  I  utterly  reject  the  belief  that 
the  body  is  the  likeness  of  the  soul ;   for  has  not 
each  of  us  friends  who,  we  know,  love  beyond 
everything  that  which  is  noble  and  good,  and  who 
bv  no  means  themselves  look  noble  and  good  ? 
And  what  about  all  the  beautiful  persons  who  love 
nothing  on  earth  except  themselves  ?     Yet  who  in 
the  world  cares  how  perfect  the  nature  may  be,  how 
humble,  how  sweet,  how  gracious,  that  dwells  in  a 
chinless  body  ?     Nobody  has  time  to  inquire  into 
natures,  and  the  chinless  must  be  content  to  be 
treated  in  something  of  the  same  good-natured, 
tolerant  fashion  in  which  we  treat  our  poor  relations 
until  such  time  as  they  shall  have  grown  a  beard ; 
•  and  those  who  by  their  sex  are  for  ever  shut  out 
from  this  glorious  possibility  will  have  to  take  care, 


52  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

should  they  be  of  a  bright  intelHgence,  how  they 
speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
nothing  being  more  droll  than  the  effect  of  high 
words  and  poetic  ideas  issuing  from  a  face  that 
does  not  match  them. 

I  wish  we  were  not  so  easily  affected  by  each 
other's  looks.  Sometimes,  during  the  course  of 
a  long  correspondence  with  a  friend,  he  grows  to 
be  inexpressibly  dear  to  me ;  I  see  how  beautiful 
his  soul  is,  how  fine  his  intellect,  how  generous 
his  heart,  and  how  he  already  possesses  in  great 
perfection  those  qualities  of  kindness,  and  patience, 
and  simplicity,  after  which  I  have  been  so  long  and 
so  vainly  striving.  It  is  not  I  clothing  him  with 
the  attributes  I  love  and  wandering  away  insen- 
sibly into  that  sweet  land  of  illusions  to  which  our 
footsteps  turn  whenever  they  are  left  to  themselves, 
it  is  his  very  self  unconsciously  writing  itself  into 
his  letters,  the  very  man  as  he  is  without  his  body. 
Then  I  meet  him  again,  and  all  illusions  go.  He 
is  what  I  had  always  found  him  when  we  were 
together,  good  and  amiable ;  but  some  trick  of 
manner,  some  feature  or  attitude  that  I  do  not  quite 
like,  makes  me  forget,  and  be  totally  unable  to 
remember,  what  I  know  from  his  letters  to  be  true 
of  him.      He,  no  doubt,  feels  the  same  thing  about 


JUNE  53 

me,  and  so  between  us  there  is  a  thick  veil  of 
something  fixed,  which,  dodge  as  we  m.ay,  we 
never  can  get  round. 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  conclude  from  all 
■  that  ?  "  said  the  Man  of  Wrath,  who  had  been 
going  out  by  the  verandah  door  with  his  gun  and 
his  dogs  to  shoot  the  squirrels  before  they  had 
eaten  up  too  many  birds,  and  of  whose  coat-sleeve 
I  had  laid  hold  as  he  passed,  keeping  him  by  me 
like  a  second  Wedding  Guest,  and  almost  as 
restless,  while  I  gave  expression  to  the  above 
sentiments. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  replied,  "unless  it  is  that  the 
world  is  very  evil  and  the  times  are  waxing  late, 
but  that  doesn't  explain  anything  either,  because 
it  isn't  true." 

And  he  went  down  the  steps  laughing  and 
shaking  his  head  and  muttering  something  that  I 
could  not  quite  catch,  and  I  am  glad  I  could  not, 
for  the  two  words  I  did  hear  were  women  and 
nonsense. 

He  has  developed  an  unexpected  passion  for 
farming,  much  to  my  relief,  and  though  we  came 
down  here  at  first  only  tentatively  for  a  year,  three 
have  passed,  and  nothing  has  been  said  about 
going  back  to  town.     Nor  will  anything  be  said 


54  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

so  long  as  he  is  not  the  one  to  say  it,  for  no  three 
years  of  my  life  can  come  up  to  these  in  happiness, 
and  not  even  those  splendid  years  of  childhood 
that  grow  brighter  as  they  recede  were  more  full 
of  delights.     The  delights  are  simple,  it  is  true, 
and  of  the  sort  that  easily  provoke  a  turning  up  of 
the  worldling's  nose  ;  but  who  cares  for  noses  that 
turn  up  ?      I  am  simple  myself,  and  never  tire  of 
the  blessed  liberty  from  all  restraints.     Even  such 
apparently  indifferent  details  as  being  able  to  walk 
straight  out  of  doors  without  first  getting  into  a 
hat  and  gloves  and  veil  are  full  of  a  subtle  charm 
that  is  ever  fresh,  and  of  which  I  can  never  have 
too  much.     It  is  clear  that  I  was  born  for  a  placid 
country  life,  and  placid  it  certainly  is  ;  so  much  so 
that  the  days  are  sometimes  far  more  like  a  dream 
than  anything  real,  the  quiet  days  of  reading,  and 
thinking,  and  watching  the  changing  hghts,  and 
the  growth  and  fading  of  the  flowers,  the  fresh 
quiet  days  when  life  is  so  full  of  zest  that  you  can- 
not stop  yourself  from  singing  because  you  are  so 
happy,  the  warm  quiet  days  lying  on  the  grass  in  a 
secluded  corner  observing  the  procession  of  clouds 
—  this  being,  I   admit,  a  particularly  undignified 
attitude,  but  think  of  the  edification  !     Each  morn- 
ing the  simple  act  of  opening  my  bedroom  win- 


JUNE  55 

dows  is  the  means  of  giving  me  an  ever-recurring 
pleasure.  Just  underneath  them  is  a  border  of 
rockets  in  full  flower,  at  that  hour  in  the  shadow  of 
the  house,  whose  gables  lie  sharply  defined  on  the 
grass  beyond,  and  they  send  up  their  good  morn- 
ing of  scent  the  moment  they  see  me  leaning  out, 
careful  not  to  omit  the  pretty  German  custom  of 
morning  greeting.  I  call  back  mine,  embellished 
with  many  endearing  words,  and  then  their  fra- 
grance comes  up  close,  and  covers  my  face  with 
gentlest  little  kisses.  Behind  them,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  lawn  on  this  west  side  of  the  house,  is  a 
thick  hedge  of  lilac  just  now  at  its  best,  and  what 
that  best  is  I  wish  all  who  love  lilac  could  see.  A 
century  ago  a  man  lived  here  who  loved  his  garden. 
He  loved,  however,  in  his  younger  years,  travelling 
as  well,  but  in  his  travels  did  not  forget  this  little 
corner  of  the  earth  belonging  to  him,  and  brought 
back  the  seeds  of  many  strange  trees  such  as  had 
never  been  seen  in  these  parts  before,  and  tried 
experiments  with  them  in  the  uncongenial  soil,  and 
though  many  perished,  a  few  took  hold,  and  grew, 
and  flourished,  and  shade  me  now  at  tea-time. 
What  flowers  he  had,  and  how  he  arranged  his 
beds,  no  one  knows,  except  that  the  eleven  beds 
round  the  sun-dial  were  put  there  by  him  ;  and  of 


56  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

one  thing  he  seems  to  have  been  inordinately  fond, 
and  that  was  lilac.  We  have  to  thank  him  for  the 
surprising  beauty  of  the  garden  in  May  and  early 
June,  for  he  it  was  who  planted  the  great  groups 
of  it,  and  the  banks  of  it,  and  massed  it  between 
the  pines  and  firs.  Wherever  a  lilac  bush  could 
go  a  lilac  bush  went ;  and  not  common  sorts,  but 
a  variety  of  good  sorts,  white,  and  purple,  and 
pink,  and  mauve,  and  he  mu^t  have  planted  it 
with  special  care  and  discrimination,  for  it  grows 
here  as  nothing  else  wi]',  and  keeps  his  memory,  in 
my  heart  at  least,  for  ever  gratefully  green.  On 
the  wall  behind  our  pew  in  church  there  is  his 
monument,  he  having  died  here  full  of  years,  in 
the  peace  that  attends  the  last  hours  of  a  good  man 
who  has  loved  his  garden  ;  and  to  the  long  Latin 
praises  of  his  virtues  and  eminence  I  add,  as  I  pass 
beneath  it  on  Sundays,  a  heartiest  Amen.  Who 
would  not  join  in  the  praises  of  a  man  to  whom 
you  owe  your  lilacs,  and  your  Spanish  chestnuts,  and 
your  tulip  trees,  and  your  pyramid  oaks  ?  "  He 
was  a  good  man,  for  he  loved  his  garden  "  —  that 
is  the  epitaph  I  would  have  put  on  his  monument, 
because  it  gives  one  a  far  clearer  sense  of  his 
goodness  and  explains  it  better  than  any  amount  of 
sonorous  Latinities.  How  could  he  be  anything  but 


JUNE  57 

good  since  he  loved  a  garden —  that  divine  filter  that 
filters  all  the  grossness  out  of  us,  and  leaves  us, 
each  time  we  have  been  in  it,  clearer,  and  purer, 
and  more  harmless  ? 


June  i6th.  —  Yesterday  morning  I  got  up  at 
three  o'clock  and  stole  through  the  echoing  pas- 
sages and  strange  dark  rooms,  undid  with  trembling 
hands  the  bolts  of  the  door  to  the  verandah,  and 
passed  out  int?  a  wonderful,  unknown  world.  I 
stood  for  a  few  minutes  motionless  on  the  steps, 
almost  frightened  by  the  awful  purity  of  nature 
when  all  the  sin  and  ugliness  is  shut  up  and  asleep, 
and  there  is  nothing  but  the  beauty  left.  It  was 
quite  light,  vet  a  bright  moon  hung  in  the  cloud- 
less grey-blue  sky  ;  the  flowers  were  all  awake, 
saturating  the  air  with  scent;  and  a  nightingale  sat 
on  a  hornbeam  quite  close  to  me,  in  loud  raptures 
at  the  coming  of  the  sun.  There  in  front  of  me 
was  the  sun-dial,  there  were  the  rose  bushes,  there 
was  the  bunch  of  pansies  I  had  dropped  the  night 
before  still  lying  on  the  path,  but  how  strange  and 
unfamiliar  it  all  looked,  and  how  holy — as  though 
God  must  be  walking  there  in  the  cool  of  the  day. 
I  went  down  the  path  leading  to  the  stream  on 


58  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

the  east  side  of  the  garden,  brushing  aside  the 
rockets  that  were  bending  across  it  drowsy  with 
dew,  the  larkspurs  on  either  side  of  me  rearing  their 
spikes  of  heavenly  blue  against  the  steely  blue  of 
the  sky,  and  the  huge  poppies  like  splashes  of  blood 
amongst  the  greys  and  blues  and  faint  pearly 
whites  of  the  innocent,  new-born  day.  On  the 
garden  side  of  the  stream  there  is  a  long  row  of 
silver  birches,  and  on  the  other  side  a  rye-field 
reaching  across  in  powdery  grey  waves  to  the  part 
of  the  sky  where  a  solemn  glow  was  already  burn- 
ing. I  sat  down  on  the  twisted,  half-fallen  trunk 
of  a  birch  and  waited,  my  feet  in  the  long  grass 
and  my  slippers  soaking  in  dew.  Through  the 
trees  I  could  see  the  house  with  its  closed  shutters 
and  drawn  blinds,  the  people  in  it  all  missing,  as  I 
have  missed  day  after  day,  the  beauty  of  life  at 
that  hour.  Just  behind  me  the  border  of  rockets 
and  larkspurs  came  to  an  end,  and,  turning  my 
head  to  watch  a  stealthy  cat,  my  face  brushed 
against  a  wet  truss  of  blossom  and  got  its  first 
morning  washing.  It  was  wonderfully  quiet,  and 
the  nightingale  on  the  hornbeam  had  everything  to 
itself  as  I  sat  motionless  watching  that  glow  in  the 
east  burning  redder ;  wonderfully  quiet,  and  so 
wonderfully  beautiful  because  one  associates  day- 


JUNE  59 

light  with  people,  and  voices,  and  bustle,  and 
hurryings  to  and  fro,  and  the  dreariness  of  working 
to  feed  our  bodies,  and  feeding  our  bodies  that  we 
may  be  able  to  work  to  feed  them  again  ;  but  here 
was  the  world  wide  awake  and  yet  only  for  me, 
all  the  fresh  pure  air  only  for  me,  all  the 
fragrance  breathed  only  by  me,  not  a  living 
soul  hearing  the  nightingale  but  me,  the  sun  in  a 
few  moments  coming  up  to  warm  only  me,  and 
nowhere  a  single  hard  word  being  spoken,  or  a 
single  selfish  act  being  done,  nowhere  anything  that 
could  tarnish  the  blessed  purity  of  the  world  as 
God  has  given  it  us.  If  one  believed  in  angels  one 
would  feel  that  they  must  love  us  best  when  we  are 
asleep  and  cannot  hurt  each  other;  and  what  a 
mercy  it  is  that  once  in  every  twenty-four  hours 
we  are  too  utterly  weary  to  go  on  being  unkind. 
The  doors  shut,  and  the  lights  go  out,  and  the 
sharpest  tongue  is  silent,  and  all  of  us,  scolder  and 
scolded,  happy  and  unhappy,  master  and  slave, 
judge  and  culprit,  are  children  again,  tired,  and 
hushed,  and  helpless,  and  forgiven.  And  see  the 
blessedness  of  sleep,  that  sends  us  back  for  a  space 
to  our  earlv  innocence.  Arc  not  our  first  impulses 
on  waking  always  good  ?  Do  we  not  all  know  how 
in  times  of  wretchedness  our  first  thoughts  after 


6o  THE   SOLITARY  SUMMER 

the  night's  sleep  are  happy  ?  We  have  been 
dreaming  we  are  happy,  and  we  wake  with  a  smile, 
and  stare  still  smiling  for  a  moment  at  our  stony 
griefs  before  with  a  stab  we  recognise  them. 

There  were  no  clouds,  and  presently,  while  I 
watched,  the  sun  came  up  quickly  out  of  the 
rye,  a  great,  bare,  red  ball,  and  the  grey  of  the 
field  turned  yellow,  and  long  shadows  lay  upon 
the  grass,  and  the  wet  flowers  flashed  out 
diamonds.  And  then  as  I  sat  there  watching, 
and  intensely  happy  as  I  imagined,  suddenly  the 
certainty  of  grief,  and  suffering,  and  death 
dropped  like  a  black  curtain  between  me  and 
the  beauty  of  the  morning,  and  then  that  other 
thought,  to  face  which  needs  all  our  courage  — 
the  realisation  of  the  awful  solitariness  in  which 
each  of  us  lives  and  dies.  Often  I  could  cry 
for  pity  of  our  forlornness,  and  of  the  pathos 
of  our  endeavours  to  comfort  ourselves.  With 
what  an  agony  of  patience  we  build  up  the 
theories  of  consolation  that  are  to  protect,  in 
times  of  trouble,  our  quivering  and  naked  souls  ! 
And  how  fatally  often  the  elaborate  machinery  re- 
fuses to  work  at  the  moment  the  blow  is  struck. 

I  got  up  and  turned  my  face  away  from  the  un- 
bearable, indifferent  brightness.     Myriads  of  small 


JUNE  6 I 

suns  danced  before  my  eyes  as  I  went  along  the  edge 
of  the  stream  to  the  seat  round  the  oak  in  my  spring 
garden,  where  I  sat  a  little,  looking  at  the  morning 
from  there,  drinking  it  in  in  long  breaths,  and  de- 
termining to  think  of  nothing  but  just  be  happy. 
What  a  smell  of  freshly  mown  grass  there  was, 
and  how  the  little  heaps  into  which  it  had  been 
raked  the  evening  before  sparkled  with  dewdrops 
as  the  sun  caught  them.  And  over  there,  how 
hot  the  poppies  were  already  beginning  to  look  — 
blazing  back  boldly  in  the  face  of  the  sun,  flashing 
back  fire  for  fire.  I  crossed  the  wet  grass  to  the 
hammock  under  the  beech  on  the  lawn,  and  lay 
in  it  awhile  trying  to  swing  in  time  to  the 
nightingale's  tune ;  and  then  I  walked  round 
the  ice-house  to  see  how  Goethe's  corner  looked 
at  such  an  hour ;  and  then  I  went  down  to  the 
fir  wood  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  where  the 
light  was  slanting  through  green  stems ;  and 
everywhere  there  was  the  same  mystery,  and 
emptiness,  and  wonder.  When  four  o'clock 
drew  near  I  set  off  home  again,  not  desiring  to 
meet  gardeners  and  have  my  little  hour  of  quiet 
talked  about,  still  less  my  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers ;  so  I  picked  a  bunch  of  roses  and  hurried 
in,  and  just  as  I  softly  bolted  the  door,  dreadfully 


62  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

afraid  of  being  taken  for  a  burglar,  I  heard  the  first 
water-cart  of  the  day  creaking  round  the  corner. 
Fearfully  I  crept  up  to  my  room,  and  when  I  awoke 
at  eight  o'clock  and  saw  the  roses  in  a  glass  by 
my  side,  I  remembered  what  had  happened  as 
though  it  had  been  years  ago. 

Now  here  I  have  had  an  experience  that  I  shall 
not  soon  forget,  something  very  precious,  and 
private,  and  close  to  my  soul ;  a  feeling  as  though 
I  had  taken  the  world  by  surprise,  and  seen  it  as 
it  really  is  when  off  its  guard  —  as  though  I  had 
been  quite  near  to  the  very  core  of  things.  The 
quiet  holiness  of  that  hour  seems  all  the  more 
mysterious  now,  because  soon  after  breakfast 
yesterday  the  wind  began  to  blow  from  the  north- 
west, and  has  not  left  off  since,  and  looking  out 
of  the  window  I  cannot  believe  that  it  is  the 
same  garden,  with  the  clouds  driving  over  it  in 
black  layers,  and  angry  little  showers  every  now 
and  then  bespattering  its  harassed  and  helpless 
inhabitants,  who  cannot  pull  their  roots  up  out  of 
the  ground  and  run  for  their  lives,  as  I  am  sure 
they  must  long  to  do.  How  discouraging  for  a 
plant  to  have  just  proudly  opened  its  loveliest 
flowers,  the  flowers  it  was  dreaming  about  all  the 
winter  and   working    at    so    busily   underground 


JUNE  63 

during  the  cold  weeks  of  spring,  and  then  for  a 
spiteful  shower  of  five  minutes'  duration  to  come 
and  pelt  them  down,  and  batter  them  about,  and 
cover  the  tender,  delicate  things  with  irremediable 
splashes  of  mud!  Every  bed  is  already  filled  with 
victims  of  the  gale,  and  those  that  escape  one 
shower  go  down  before  the  next ;  so  I  must  make 
up  my  mind,  I  suppose,  to  the  wholesale  destruc- 
tion of  the  flowers  that  had  reached  perfection  — 
that  head  of  white  rockets  among  them  that 
washed  my  face  a  hundred  years  ago  —  and  look 
forward  cheerfully  to  the  development  of  the 
younger  generation  of  buds  which  cannot  yet 
be  harmed. 

I  know  these  gales.  We  get  them  quite 
suddenly,  always  from  the  north-west,  and  always 
cold.  They  ruin  my  garden  for  a  day  or 
two,  and  in  the  summer  try  my  temper,  and  at 
all  seasons  try  my  skin  ;  yet  they  are  precious 
because  of  the  beautiful  clear  light  they  bring, 
the  intensity  of  cold  blue  in  the  sky  and  the 
terrific  purple  blackness  of  the  clouds  one  hour 
and  their  divine  whiteness  the  next.  They  fly 
screaming  over  the  plain  as  though  ten  thousand 
devils  with  whips  were  after  them,  and  in  the  sunny 
intervals  there  is  nothing  in  any  of  nature's  moods 


64  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

to  equal  the  clear  sharpness  of  the  atmosphere,  all 
the  mellowness  and  indistinctness  beaten  out  of  it, 
and  every  leaf  and  twig  glistening  coldly  bright. 
It  is  not  becoming,  a  north-westerly  gale  ;  it  treats 
us  as  it  treats  the  garden,  but  with  opposite 
results,  roughly  rubbing  the  softness  out  of  our 
faces,  as  I  can  see  when  I  look  at  the  babies,  and 
avoid  the  further  proof  of  my  own  reflection  in 
the  glass.  But  there  is  life  in  it,  glowing,  intense, 
robust  life,  and  when  in  October  after  weeks  of 
serene  weather  this  gale  suddenly  pounces  on  us 
in  all  its  savageness,  and  the  cold  comes  in  a 
gust,  and  the  trees  are  stripped  in  an  hour,  what  a 
bracing  feeling  it  is,  the  feeling  that  here  is  the  first 
breath  of  winter,  that  it  is  time  to  pull  ourselves 
together,  that  the  season  of  work,  and  discipline^ 
and  severity  is  upon  us,  the  stern  season  that 
forces  us  to  look  facts  in  the  face,  to  put  aside  our 
dreams  and  languors,  and  show  what  stuff  we  are 
made  of.  No  one  can  possibly  love  the  summer, 
the  dear  time  of  dreams,  more  passionately  than 
I  do ;  yet  I  have  no  desire  to  prolong  it  by 
running  off  south  when  the  winter  approaches 
and  so  cheat  the  year  of  half  its  lessons.  It  is 
delightful  and  instructive  to  potter  among  one's 
plants,  but  it  is  imperative  for  body  and  soul  that 


JUNE  65 

the  pottering  should  cease  for  a  few  months,  and 
that  we  should  be  made  to  realise  that  grim  other 
side  of  life.  A  long  hard  winter  lived  through  from 
beginning  to  end  without  shirking  is  one  of  the 
most  salutary  experiences  in  the  world.  There 
is  no  nonsense  about  it ;  you  could  not  indulge 
in  vapours  and  the  finer  sentiments  in  the  midst 
of  its  deadly  earnest  if  you  tried.  The  ther- 
mometer goes  down  to  twenty  degrees  of  frost 
Reaumur,  and  down  you  go  with  it  to  the  realities, 
to  that  elementary  state  where  everything  is  big  — 
health  and  sickness,  delight  and  misery,  ecstasy 
and  despair.  It  makes  you  remember  your  poorer 
neighbours,  and  sends  you  into  their  homes  to  see 
that  they  too  are  fitted  out  with  the  armour  of 
warmth  and  food  necessary  in  the  long  fight ; 
and  in  your  own  home  it  draws  you  nearer  than 
ever  to  each  other.  Out  of  doors  it  is  too  cold 
to  walk,  so  you  run,  and  are  rewarded  by  the 
conviction  that  you  cannot  be  more  than  fifteen ; 
or  you  get  into  your  furs,  and  dart  away  in  a 
sleigh  over  the  snow,  and  are  sure  there  never 
was  music  so  charming  as  that  of  its  bells  ;  or  you 
put  on  your  skates,  and  are  off  to  the  lake  to 
which  you  drove  so  often  on  June  nights,  when  it 
lay  rosy  in  the  reflection  of  the  northern  glow, 


66  THE   SOLITARY   SUA4MER 

and  all  alive  with  myriads  of  wild  duck  and 
plovers,  and  which  is  now,  but  for  the  swish  of 
your  skates,  so  silent,  and  but  for  your  warmth 
and  jollity,  so  forlorn.  Nor  would  I  willingly 
miss  the  early  darkness  and  the  pleasant  firelight 
tea  and  the  long  evenings  among  my  books.  It 
is  then  that  I  am  glad  I  do  not  live  in  a  cave,  as 
I  confess  I  have  in  my  more  godhke  moments 
wished  to  do ;  it  is  then  that  I  feel  most  capable 
of  attending  to  the  Man  of  Wrath's  exhortations 
with  an  open  mind ;  it  is  then  that  I  actually  like 
to  hear  the  shrieks  of  the  wind,  and  then  that  I 
give  my  heartiest  assent,  as  I  warm  my  feet  at  the 
fire,  to  the  poet's  proposition  that  all  which  we 
behold  is  full  of  blessings. 

But  what  dreariness  can  equal  the  dreariness  of 
a  cold  gale  at  midsummer  ?  I  have  been  chilly 
and  dejected  all  day,  shut  up  behind  the  streaming 
window-panes,  and  not  liking  to  have  a  fire  because 
of  its  dissipated  appearance  in  the  scorching  in- 
tervals of  sunshine.  Once  or  twice  my  hand  was 
on  the  bell  and  I  was  going  to  order  one,  when 
out  came  the  sun  and  it  was  June  again,  and  I  ran 
joyfully  into  the  dripping,  gleaming  garden,  only 
to  be  driven  in  five  minutes  later  by  a  yet  fiercer 
squall.     I  wandered  disconsolately  round  my  pillar 


JUNE  67 

of  books,  looking  for  the  one  that  would  lend 
itself  best  to  the  task  of  entertaining  me  under 
the  prevailing  conditions,  but  they  all  looked 
gloomy,  and  reserved,  and  forbidding.  So  I  sat 
down  in  a  very  big  chair,  and  reflected  that  if 
there  were  to  be  many  days  like  this  it  might  be 
as  well  to  ask  somebody  cheerful  to  come  and  sit 
opposite  me  in  all  those  other  big  chairs  that  were 
looking  so  unusually  gigantic  and  empty.  When 
the  Man  of  Wrath  came  in  to  tea  there  were  such 
heavy  clouds  that  the  room  was  quite  dark,  and 
he  peered  about  for  a  moment  before  he  saw  me. 
I  suppose  in  the  gloom  of  the  big  room  1  must 
have  looked  rather  lonely,  and  smaller  than  usual 
buried  in  the  capacious  chair,  for  when  he  finally 
discovered  me  his  face  widened  into  an  inappro- 
priately cheerful  smile. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said  genially,  "  how  very 
cold  it  is." 

"  Did  you  come  in  to  say  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  This  tempest  is  very  unusual  in  the  summer," 
he  proceeded ;  to  which  I  made  no  reply  of  any 
sort. 

"  I  did  not  see  you  at  first  amongst  all  these 
chairs  and  cushions.  At  least,  I  saw  you,  but  it 
is  so  dark  I  thought  you  were  a  cushion." 


68  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

Now  no  woman  likes  to  be  taken  for  a  cushion, 
so  I  rose  and  began  to  make  tea  with  an  icy- 
dignity  of  demeanour. 

"I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  forced  to  break  my 
promise  not  to  invite  any  one  here,"  he  said, 
watching  my  face  as  he  spoke.  My  heart  gave 
a  distinct  leap  —  so  small  is  the  constancy  and 
fortitude  of  woman.  "  But  it  will  only  be  for 
one  night."  My  heart  sank  down  as  though  it 
were  lead.  "  And  I  have  just  received  a  telegram 
that  it  will  be  to-night."  Up  went  my  heart  with 
a  cheerful  bound. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  inquired.  And  then  he  told 
me  that  it  was  the  least  objectionable  of  the  can- 
didates for  the  living  here,  made  vacant  by  our 
own  parson  having  been  appointed  superintendent^ 
the  highest  position  in  the  Lutheran  Church  ;  and 
the  gale  must  have  brought  me  low  indeed  for  the 
coming  of  a  solitary  parson  to  give  me  pleasure. 
The  entire  race  of  Lutheran  parsons  is  unpleasing 
to  me,  —  whether  owing  to  their  fault  or  to  mine, 
it  would  ill  become  me  to  say,  —  and  the  one  we 
are  losing  is  the  only  one  I  have  met  that  I  can 
heartily  respect,  and  admire,  and  like.  But  he  is 
quite  one  by  himself  in  his  extreme  godliness, 
perfect  simplicity,  and  real  humility,  and  though 


JUNE  69 

I  knew  it  was  unlikely  we  should  find  another  as 
good,  and  I  despised  myself  for  the  eagerness  with 
which  I  felt  I  was  looking  forward  to  seeing  a  new 
face,  I  could  not  stop  myself  from  suddenly  feeling 
.cheerful.  Such  is  the  weakness  of  the  female 
mind,  and  such  the  unexpected  consequences  of 
two  months'  complete  solitude  with  forty-eight 
hours'  gale  at  the  end  of  them. 

We  have  had  countless  applications  during  the 
last  few  weeks  for  the  living,  as  it  is  a  specially 
fat  one  for  this  part  of  the  country,  with  a  yearly 
income  of  six  thousand  marks,  and  a  good  house, 
and  several  acres  of  land.  The  Man  of  Wrath 
has  been  distracted  by  the  difficulties  of  choice. 
According  to  the  letters  of  recommendation,  they 
were  all  wonderful  men  with  unrivalled  powers  of 
preaching,  but  on  closer  inquiry  there  was  sure  to 
be  some  drawback.  One  was  too  old,  another  not 
old  enough  ;  another  had  twelve  children,  and  the 
parsonage  only  allows  for  eight;  one  had  a  shrewish 
wife,  and  another  was  of  Liberal  tendencies  in 
politics  —  a  fatal  objection;  one  was  in  money 
difficulties  because  he  would  spend  more  than  he 
had,  which  was  not  surprising  when  one  heard 
what  he  did  have  ;  and  another  was  disliked  in  his 
parish  because  he  and  his  wife  were  too  close-fisted 


70  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

and  would  not  spend  at  all  ;  and  at  last,  the  Man 
of  Wrath  explained,  the  moment  having  arrived 
when  if  he  did  not  himself  appoint  somebody  his 
right  to  do  so  would  lapse,  he  had  written  to  the 
one  who  was  coming,  and  invited  him  down  that 
he  might  look  at  him,  and  ask  him  searching 
questions  as  to  the  faith  which  is  in  him. 

I  forgot  my  gloom,  and  my  half-formed  desper- 
ate resolve  to  break  my  vow  of  solitude  and  fill  the 
house  with  the  frivolous,  as  I  sat  listening  to  the 
cheerful  talk  of  the  little  parson  this  evening. 
He  was  so  cheerful,  yet  it  was  hard  to  see  any 
cause  for  it  in  the  life  he  was  leading,  a  life  led 
by  the  great  majority  of  the  German  clergy,  fat 
livings  being  as  rare  here  as  anywhere  else.  He 
told  us  with  pleasant  frankness  all  about  himself, 
how  he  lived  on  an  income  of  two  thousand  marks 
with  a  wife  and  six  children,  and  how  he  was  often 
sorely  put  to  it  to  keep  decent  shoes  on  their  feet. 
"  I  am  continually  drawing  up  plans  of  expendi- 
ture," he  said,  "  but  the  shoemaker's  bill  is  always 
so  much  more  than  I  had  expected  that  it  throws 
my  calculations  completely  out." 

His  wife,  of  course,  was  ailing,  but  already  his 
eldest  child,  a  girl  of  ten,  took  a  great  deal  of  the 
work  oflF  her  mother's  shoulders,  poor  baby.     He 


JUNE  71 

was  perfectly  natural,  and  said  in  the  simplest  way 
that  if  the  choice  were  to  fall  on  him  it  would 
relieve  him  of  many  grinding  anxieties  ;  where- 
upon I  privately  determined  that  if  the  choice  did 
not  fall  on  him  the  Man  of  Wrath  and  I  would 
be  strangers  from  that  hour. 

"  Have  you  been  worrying  him  with  questions 
about  his  principles  ?  "  I  asked,  buttonholing  the 
Man  of  Wrath  as  he  came  out  from  a  private 
conference  with  him. 

"  Principles  ?  My  dear  Elizabeth,  how  can  he 
have  any  on  that  income  ?  " 

"  If  he  is  not  a  Conservative  will  you  let  that 
stand  in  his  way,  and  doom  that  little  child  to  go 
on  taking  work  off  other  people's  shoulders  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Elizabeth,"  he  protested,  "  what 
has  my  decision  for  or  against  him  to  do  with 
dooming  little  children  to  go  on  doing  any- 
thing ?  I  really  cannot  be  governed  by  senti- 
ment." 

"  If  you  don't  give  it  to  him  —  "  and  I  held 
up  an  awful  finger  of  warning  as  he  retreated,  at 
which  he  only  laughed. 

When  the  parson  came  to  say  good-night  and 
good-bye,  as  he  was  leaving  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  saw  at  once  by  his  face  that  all  was  right. 


72  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

He  bent  over  my  hand,  stammering  out  words  of 
thanks  and  promises  of  devotion  and  invocations 
of  blessings  in  such  quantities  that  I  began  to  feel 
quite  pleased  with  myself,  and  as  though  I  had 
been  doing  a  virtuous  deed.  This  feeling  I  saw 
reflected  on  the  Man  of  Wrath's  face,  which  made 
me  consider  that  all  we  had  done  was  to  fill  the 
living  in  the  way  that  suited  us  best,  and  that  we  had 
no  cause  whatever  to  look  and  feel  so  benevolent. 
Still,  even  now,  while  the  victorious  candidate  is 
dreaming  of  his  trebled  income  and  of  the  raptures 
of  his  home-coming  to-morrow,  the  glow  has  not 
quite  departed,  and  I  am  dwelling  with  satisfaction 
on  the  fact  that  we  have  been  able  to  raise  eight 
people  above  those  hideous  cares  that  crush  all  the 
colour  out  of  the  Hves  of  the  genteel  poor.  I  am 
glad  he  has  so  many  children,  because  there  will  be 
more  to  be  made  happy.  They  will  be  rich  on  the 
little  income,  and  will  no  doubt  dismiss  the  wise 
and  willing  eldest  baby  to  appropriate  dolls  and 
pinafores ;  and  everybody  will  have  what  they 
never  yet  have  had,  a  certain  amount  of  that 
priceless  boon,  leisure  —  leisure  to  sit  down  and 
look  at  themselves,  and  inquire  what  it  is  they 
really  mean,  and  really  want,  and  really  intend  to 
do  with  their  lives.     And  this,  I  may  observe,  is 


JUNE  73 

a  beneficial  process  wholly  impossible  on  J^ioo  a 
year  divided  by  eight. 

But  I  wonder  whether  they  will  be  thin-skinned 
enough  ever  to  discover  that  other  and  less  delight- 
-ful  side  of  life  only  seen  by  those  who  hav^e  plenty 
of  leisure.  Sordid  cares  may  be  very  terrible  to 
the  sensitive,  and  make  them  miss  the  best  of 
everything,  but  as  long  as  they  have  them  and 
are  busy  from  morning  till  night  keeping  up 
appearances,  they  miss  also  the  burden  of  those 
fears,  and  dreads,  and  realisations  that  beset  him 
who  has  time  to  think.  When  in  the  morning 
1  go  into  my  sausage-room  and  give  out  sausages, 
I  never  think  of  anything  but  sausages.  My 
horizon  is  bounded  by  them,  every  faculty  is 
absorbed  by  them,  and  they  engross  me,  while  I 
am  with  them,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  whole  world. 
Not  that  I  love  them  ;  as  far  as  that  goes,  unHke 
the  effect  they  produce  on  most  of  my  country- 
men, they  leave  me  singularly  cold  ;  but  it  is  one 
of  my  duties  to  begin  the  day  with  sausages,  and 
every  morning  for  the  short  time  I  am  in  the 
midst  of  their  shining  rows,  watching  my  Mamsell 
dexterously  hooking  down  the  sleekest  with  an 
instrument  like  a  boat-hook,  I  am  practically  dead 
to  every  other  consideration  in  heaven  or  on  earth. 


74  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

What  are  they  to  me,  Love,  Life,  Death,  all  the 
mysteries  ?  The  one  thing  that  concerns  me  is 
the  due  distribution  to  the  servants  of  sausages  ; 
and  until  that  is  done,  all  obstinate  questionings 
and  blank  misgivings  must  wait.  If  I  were  to 
spend  my  days  in  their  entirety  doing  such  work 
I  should  never  have  time  to  think,  and  if  I  never 
thought  I  should  never  feel,  and  if  I  never  felt 
I  should  never  suffer  or  rapturously  enjoy,  and 
so  I  should  grow  to  be  something  very  like  a 
sausage  mvself,  and  not  on  that  account,  I  do  be- 
lieve, any  the  less  precious  to  the  Man  of  Wrath. 
I  know  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  both  poor 
and  genteel  —  the  gentility  should  go  to  the  place 
of  all  good  ilities,  including  utility,  respectability, 
and  imbecility,  and  I  would  sit,  quite  frankly 
poor,  with  a  piece  of  bread,  and  a  pot  of  geran- 
iums, and  a  book.  I  conclude  that  if  I  did  with- 
out the  things  erroneously  supposed  necessary  to 
decency  I  might  be  able  to  afford  a  geranium, 
because  I  see  them  so  often  in  the  windows  of 
cottages  where  there  is  little  else ;  and  if  I  pre- 
ferred such  inexpensive  indulgences  as  thinking 
and  reading  and  wandering  in  the  fields  to  the 
doubtful  gratification  arising  from  kept-up  ap- 
pearances (always    for   the    bedazzlement  of  the 


JUNE  75 

people  opposite,  and  therefore  always  vulgar), 
I  believe  I  should  have  enough  left  over  to  buy 
a  radish  to  eat  with  my  bread ;  and  if  the  weather 
were  fine,  and  I  could  eat  it  under  a  tree,  and 
'  give  a  robin  some  crumbs  in  return  for  his  cheer- 
iness,  would  there  be  another  creature  in  the 
world  so  happy?     I   know  there  would  not. 


July 


JULY 


July  \st.  —  I  think  that  after  roses  sweet-peas 
are  my  favourite  flowers.  Nobody,  except  the 
ultra-original,  denies  the  absolute  supremacy  of 
the  rose.  She  is  safe  on  her  throne,  and  the 
only  question  to  decide  is  which  are  the  flowers 
that  one  loves  next  best.  This  I  have  been  a 
long  while  deciding,  though  I  believe  I  knew 
all  the  time  somewhere  deep  down  in  my  heart 
that  they  were  sweet-peas ;  and  every  summer 
when  they  first  come  out,  and  every  time,  going 
round  the  garden,  that  I  come  across  them,  I 
murmur  involuntarily,  "  Oh  yes,  you  are  the 
sweetest,  you  dear,  dear  little  things."  And  what 
a  victory  this  is,  to  be  ranked  next  the  rose  even 
by  one  person  who  loves  her  garden.  Think  of 
the  wonderful  beauty  triumphed  over  —  the  lilies, 

79 


8o  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

the  irises,  the  carnations,  the  violets,  the  frail  anC 
delicate  poppies,  the  magnificent  larkspurs,  the 
burning  nasturtiums,  the  fierce  marigolds,  the 
smooth,  cool  pansies.  I  have  a  bed  at  this 
moment  in  the  full  glory  of  all  these  things,  a 
little  chosen  plot  of  fertile  land,  about  fifteen 
yards  long  and  of  irregular  breadth,  shutting  in 
at  its  broadest  the  east  end  of  the  walk  along  the 
south  front  of  the  house,  and  sloping  away  at  the 
back  down  to  a  moist,  low  bit  by  the  side  of  a 
very  tiny  stream,  or  rather  thread  of  trickling 
water,  where,  in  the  dampest  corner,  shining  in 
the  sun,  but  with  their  feet  kept  cool  and  wet,  is  a 
colony  of  Japanese  irises,  and  next  to  them  higher 
on  the  slope  Madonna  lilies,  so  chaste  in  looks 
and  so  voluptuous  in  smell,  and  then  a  group  of 
hollyhocks  in  tenderest  shades  of  pink,  and  lemon, 
and  white,  and  right  and  left  of  these  white 
marguerites  and  evening  primroses  and  that  most 
exquisite  of  poppies  called  Shirley,  and  a  little  on 
one  side  a  group  of  metallic  blue  delphiniums 
beside  a  towering  white  lupin,  and  in  and  out 
and  everywhere  mignonette,  and  stocks,  and  pinks, 
and  a  dozen  other  smaller  but  not  less  lovely 
plants,  I  wish  I  were  a  poet,  that  I  might  properly 
describe  the  beauty  of  this  bit  as  it  sparkles  this 


JULY  8 I 

afternoon  in  the  sunshine  after  rain ;  but  of  all 
the  charming,  delicate,  scented  groups  it  contains, 
none  to  my  mind  is  so  lovely  as  the  group  of 
sweet-peas  in  its  north-west  corner.  There  is 
something  so  utterly  gentle  and  tender  about  sweet- 
peas,  something  so  endearing  in  their  clinging, 
winding,  yielding  growth  ;  and  then  the  long 
straight  stalk,  and  the  perfect  little  winged  flower 
at  the  top,  with  its  soft,  pearly  texture  and 
wonderful  range  and  combination  of  colours  —  all 
of  them  pure,  all  of  them  satisfying,  not  an  ugly 
one,  or  even  a  less  beautiful  one  among  them. 
And  in  the  house,  next  to  a  china  bowl  of  roses, 
there  is  no  arrangement  of  flowers  so  lovely  as  a 
bowl  of  sweet-peas,  or  a  Delfjar  filled  with  them. 
What  a  mass  of  glowing,  yet  delicate  colour  it  is  ! 
How  prettily,  the  moment  you  open  the  door,  it 
seems  to  send  its  fragrance  to  meet  you  !  And 
how  you  hang  over  it,  and  bury  your  face  in  it, 
and  love  it,  and  cannot  get  away  from  it.  I  really 
am  sorry  for  all  the  people  in  the  world  who  miss 
such  keen  pleasure.  It  is  one  that  each  person 
who  opens  his  eyes  and  his  heart  may  have ;  and 
indeed,  most  of  the  things  that  are  really  worth 
having  are  within  everybody's  reach.  Any  one 
who  chooses  to  take  a  country  walk,  or  even  the 


82  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

small  amount  of  trouble  necessary  to  get  him  on  to 
his  doorstep  and  make  him  open  his  eyes,  may 
have  them,  and  there  are  thousands  of  them  thrust 
upon  us  by  nature,  who  is  for  ever  giving  and 
blessing,  at  every  turn  as  we  walk.  The  sight  of 
the  first  pale  flowers  starring  the  copses ;  an 
anemone  held  up  against  the  blue  sky  with  the 
sun  shining  through  it  towards  you  ;  the  first  fall 
of  snow  in  the  autumn  ;  the  first  thaw  of  snow 
in  the  spring;  the  blustering,  busy  winds  blowing 
the  winter  away  and  scurrying  the  dead,  untidy 
leaves  into  the  corners;  the  hot  smell  of  pines  — 
just  like  blackberries  —  when  the  sun  is  on  them  ; 
the  first  February  evening  that  is  fine  enough  to 
show  how  the  days  are  lengthening,  with  its 
pale  yellow  strip  of  sky  behind  the  black  trees 
whose  branches  are  pearled  with  raindrops ;  the 
swift  pang  of  realisation  that  the  winter  is  gone 
and  the  spring  is  coming ;  the  smell  of  the  young 
larches  a  few  weeks  later;  the  bunch  of  cow- 
slips that  you  kiss  and  kiss  again  because  it  is 
so  perfect,  because  it  is  so  divinely  sweet,  because 
of  all  the  kisses  in  the  world  there  is  none  other 
so  exquisite  —  who  that  has  felt  the  joy  of  these 
things  would  exchange  them,  even  if  in  return  he 
were  to  gain  the  whole  world,  with  all  its  chimney- 


JULY  83 

pots,  and  bricks,  and  dust,  and  dreariness  ?  And 
we  know  that  the  gain  of  a  world  never  yet  made 
up  for  the  loss  of  a  soul. 

One  dav,  in  going  round  the  head  inspector's 
garden  with  his  wife,  whose  care  it  is,  I  re- 
marked with  surprise  that  she  had  no  sweet-peas. 
I  called  them  Lathyrus  odoratus^  and  she,  having 
little  Latin,  did  not  understand.  Then  I  called 
them  wohlriechende  Wkken^  the  German  render- 
ing of  that  which  sounds  so  pretty  in  English, 
and  she  said  she  had  never  heard  of  them. 
The  idea  of  an  existence  in  a  garden  yet  with- 
out sweet-peas,  so  willing,  so  modest,  and  so 
easily  grown,  had  never  presented  itself  as  pos- 
sible to  my  imagination.  Ever  since  I  can 
remember,  my  summers  have  been  filled  with 
them  ;  and  in  the  days  when  I  sat  in  my  own 
perambulator  and  they  w^re  three  times  as  tall  as 
I  was,  I  well  recollect  a  certain  waving  hedge  of 
them  in  the  garden  of  my  childhood,  and  how  I 
stared  up  longingly  at  the  flowers  so  far  beyond 
my  reach,  inaccessibly  tossing  against  the  sky. 
When  I  grew  bigger  and  had  a  small  garden  of 
my  own,  I  bought  their  seeds  to  the  extent  of 
twenty  pfennings,  and  trained  the  plants  over  the 
rabbit-hutch    that  was    the   chief  feature   in   the 


84  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

landscape.  There  were  other  seeds  in  that  garden, 
seeds  on  which  I  had  laid  out  all  my  savings  and 
round  which  played  my  fondest  hopes,  but  the 
sweet-peas  were  the  only  ones  that  came  up.  The 
same  thing  happened  here  in  my  first  summer,  my 
gardening  knowledge  not  having  meanwhile  kept 
pace  with  my  years,  and  of  the  seeds  sown  that 
first  season  sweet-peas  again  were  the  only  ones 
that  came  up.  I  should  say  they  were  just  the 
things  for  people  with  very  little  time  and  ex- 
perience at  their  disposal  to  grow.  A  garden 
might  be  made  beautiful  with  sweet-peas  alone, 
and,  with  hardly  any  labour,  except  the  sweet 
labour  of  picking  to  prolong  the  bloom,  be  turned 
into  a  fairy  bower  of  delicacy  and  refinement. 
Yet  the  Frau  Inspector  not  only  had  never  heard 
of  them,  but,  on  my  showing  her  a  bunch,  was  not 
in  the  least  impressed,  and  led  me  in  her  garden 
to  a  number  of  those  exceedingly  vulgar  red 
herbaceous  peonies  growing  among  her  currant 
bushes,  and  announced  with  conviction  that  they 
were  her  favourite  flower.  It  was  on  the  tip  of 
my  tongue  to  point  out  that  in  these  days  of 
tree-peonies,  and  peonies  so  lovely  in  their  silvery 
faint  tints  that  they  resemble  gigantic  roses,  it  is 
absolutely  wicked  to  suffer  those  odious  red  ones 


JULY  85 

to  pervert  one's  taste  ;  that  a  person  who  sees 
nothing  but  those  every  time  he  looks  out  of  his 
window  very  quickly  has  his  nice  perception  for 
true  beauty  blunted  ;  that  such  a  person  would  do 
well  to  visit  my  garden  every  day  during  the 
month  of  May,  and  so  get  himself  cured  by  the 
sight  of  my  peony  bushes  covered  with  huge 
scented  white  and  blush  flowers ;  and  that  he 
would,  I  was  convinced,  at  the  end  of  the  cure,  go 
home  and  pitch  his  own  on  to  the  dust-heap.  But 
of  what  earthly  use  would  it  have  been  ?  Pointing 
out  the  difference  between  what  is  beautiful  and 
what  misses  beauty  to  a  Frau  Inspector  of  forty, 
whose  chief  business  it  is  to  make  butter,  is  likely 
to  be  singularly  unprolific  of  good  results  ;  and, 
further,  experience  has  taught  me  that  whenever 
anything  is  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  the  best  thing 
to  do  is  to  keep  it  there.  I  wonder  why  a  woman 
always  wants  to  interfere. 

It  is  a  pity,  nevertheless,  that  this  lady  should 
be  so  wanting  in  the  aesthetic  instinct,  for  her 
garden  is  full  of  possibilities.  It  lies  due  south, 
sheltered  on  the  north,  east,  and  west  by  farm 
buildings,  and  is  rich  in  those  old  fruit-trees  and 
well-seasoned  gooseberry  bushes  that  make  such  a 
good  basis  for  the  formation  of  that  most  delightful 


86  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

type  of  little  garden,  the  flower-and-fruit-and- 
vegetable-mixed  sort.  She  has,  besides,  an  in- 
estimable slimy,  froggy  pond,  a  perpetual  treasure 
of  malodorous  water,  much  pined  after  by  thirsty 
flowers ;  and  then  does  she  not  live  in  the  middle 
of  a  farmyard  flowing  with  fertilising  properties 
that  only  require  a  bucket  and  a  shovel  to  trans- 
form them  into  roses  ?  The  way  in  which  people 
miss  their  opportunities  is  melancholy. 

This  pond  of  hers,  by  the  way,  is  an  object  of 
the  liveliest  interest  to  the  babies.  They  do  not 
seem  to  mind  the  smell,  and  they  love  the  slime, 
and  they  had  played  there  for  several  days  in  great 
peace  before  the  unfortunate  accident  of  the  June 
baby's  falling  in  and  being  brought  back  looking 
like  a  green  and  speckled  frog  herself,  revealed 
where  it  was  they  had  persuaded  Seraphine  to  let 
them  spend  their  mornings.  Then  there  was  woe 
and  lamentation,  for  I  was  sure  they  would  all 
have  typhoid  fever,  and  I  put  them  mercilessly  to 
bed,  and  dosed  them,  as  a  preliminary,  with  castor 
oil  —  that  oil  of  sorrow,  as  Carlyle  calls  it.  It  was 
no  use  sending  for  the  doctor  because  there  is 
no  doctor  within  reach  ;  a  fact  which  simplifies  life 
amazingly  when  you  have  children.  During  the 
time  we  lived  in  town  the  doctor  was  never  out  of 


JULY  87 

the  house.  Hardly  a  day  passed  but  one  or  other 
of  the  Three  had  a  spot,  or,  as  the  expressive 
German  has  it,  a  Pickel,  and  what  parent  could 
resist  sending  for  a  doctor  when  one  lived  round 
the  corner  ?  But  doctors  are  like  bad  habits  — 
once  you  have  shaken  them  off  you  discover  how 
much  better  you  are  without  them ;  and  as  for 
the  babies,  since  they  inhabit  a  garden,  prompt 
bed  and  the  above-mentioned  simple  remedy 
have  been  all  that  is  necessary  to  keep  them 
robust.  I  admit  I  was  frightened  when  I  heard 
where  they  had  been  playing,  for  when  the  wind 
comes  from  that  quarter  even  sitting  by  my  rose  beds 
I  have  been  reminded  of  the  existence  of  the  pond  ; 
and  I  kept  them  in  bed  for  three  days,  anxiously 
awaiting  symptoms,  and  my  head  full  of  a  dreadful 
story  I  had  heard  of  a  little  boy  who  had  drunk 
seltzer  water  and  thereupon  been  seized  with 
typhoid  fever  and  had  died,  and  if,  I  asked  myself 
with  a  power  of  reasoning  unusual  in  a  woman, 
you  die  after  seltzer  water,  what  will  you  not  do 
after  frog-pond  ?  But  they  did  nothing,  except 
be  uproarious,  and  sing  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
and  clamour  for  more  dinner  than  I  felt  would  be 
appropriate  for  babies  who  were  going  to  be 
dangerously  ill  in  a  few  hours  ;  and  so,  after  due 


88  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

waiting,  they  were  got  up  and  dressed  and  turned 
loose  again,  and  from  that  day  to  this  no  symptoms 
have  appeared.  The  pond  was  at  first  strictly 
forbidden  as  a  playground,  but  afterwards  I  made 
concessions,  and  now  they  are  allowed  to  go  to  a 
deserted  little  burying-ground  on  the  west  side  of 
it  when  the  wind  is  in  the  west ;  and  there  at  least 
they  can  hear  the  frogs,  and  sometimes,  if  they  are 
patient,  catch  a  delightful  glimpse  of  them. 

The  graveyard  is  in  the  middle  of  a  group 
of  pines  that  bounds  the  Frau  Inspector's  garden 
on  that  side,  and  has  not  been  used  within  the 
memory  of  living  man.  The  people  here  love 
to  make  their  little  burying-grounds  in  the  heart 
of  a  wood  if  they  can,  and  they  are  often  a  long 
way  away  from  the  church  to  which  they  belong 
because, while  everyhamlet  has  its  burying-ground, 
three  or  four  hamlets  have  to  share  a  church;  and 
indeed  the  need  for  churches  is  not  so  urgent  as 
that  for  graves,  seeing  that,  though  we  may  not 
all  go  to  church,  we  all  of  us  die  and  must  be 
buried.  Some  of  these  little  cemeteries  are  not 
even  anywhere  near  a  village,  and  you  come  upon 
them  unexpectedly  in  your  drives  through  the 
woods  —  bits  of  fenced-in  forest,  the  old  gates 
dropping  off  their  hinges,  the  paths  green  from 


JULY  89 

long  disuse,  the  unchecked  trees  casting  black, 
impenetrable  shadows  across  the  poor,  meek, 
pathetic  graves.  I  try  sometimes,  pushing  aside 
the  weeds,  to  decipher  the  legend  on  the  almost 
speechless  headstones;  but  the  voice  has  been 
choked  out  of  them  by  years  of  wind,  and  frost, 
and  snow,  and  a  few  stray  letters  are  all  that  they 
can  utter  —  a  last  stammering  protest  against 
oblivion. 

The  Man  of  Wrath  says  all  women  love 
churchyards.  He  is  fond  of  sweeping  assertions, 
and  is  sometimes  curiously  feminine  in  his  tendency 
to  infer  a  general  principle  from  a  particular 
instance.  The  deserted  little  forest  burying- 
grounds  interest  and  touch  me  because  they  are 
so  solitary,  and  humble,  and  neglected,  and  for- 
gotten, and  because  so  many  long  years  have 
passed  since  tears  were  shed  over  the  newly  made 
graves.  Nobody  cries  now  for  the  husband,  or 
father,  or  brother  buried  there  ;  years  and  years 
ago  the  last  tear  that  would  ever  be  shed  for  them 
was  dried  —  dried  probably  before  the  gate  was 
reached  on  the  way  home  —  and  they  were  not 
missed.  Love  and  sorrow  appear  to  be  flowers  of 
civilisation,  and  most  to  flourish  where  life  has  the 
broadest  margin  of  leisure  and  abundance.     The 


90  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

primary  instincts  are  always  there,  and  must  first 
be  satisfied  ;  and  if  to  obtain  the  means  of  satisfy- 
ing them  you  have  to  work  from  morning  till 
night  without  rest,  who  shall  find  time  and  energy 
to  sit  down  and  lament  ?  I  often  go  with  the  babies 
to  the  enclosure  near  the  Frau  Inspector's  pond, 
and  it  seems  just  as  natural  that  they  should  play 
there  as  that  the  white  butterflies  should  chase 
each  other  undisturbed  across  the  shadows.  And 
then  the  place  has  a  soothing  influence  on  them, 
and  they  sober  down  as  we  approach  it,  and  on 
hot  afternoons  sit  quietly  enough  as  close  to  the 
pond  as  they  may,  content  to  watch  for  the  chance 
appearance  of  a  frog  while  talking  to  me  about 
angels. 

This  is  their  favourite  topic  of  conversation 
in  this  particular  place.  Just  as  I  have  special 
times  and  places  for  certain  books,  so  do  they 
seem  to  have  special  times  and  places  for  certain 
talk.  The  first  time  I  took  them  there  they 
asked  me  what  the  mounds  were,  and  by  a  series 
of  adroit  questions  extracted  the  information 
that  the  people  who  had  been  buried  there  were 
now  angels  (I  am  not  a  specialist,  and  must  take 
refuge  in  telling  them  what  I  was  told  in  my 
youth),  and  ever  since  then  they  refuse  to  call  it 


JULY  91 

a  graveyard,  and  have  christened  it  the  angel-yard, 
and  so  have  got  into  the  way  of  discussing  angels 
in  all  their  bearings,  sometimes  to  my  confusion, 
whenever  we  go  there. 

"  But  what  are  angels,  mummy  ?  "  said  the  June 
baby  inconsequently  this  afternoon,  after  having 
assisted  at  the  discussions  for  several  days  and 
apparently  listening  with  attention. 

"  Such  a  silly  baby  !  "  cried  April,  turning  upon 
her  with  contempt,  "  don't  you  know  they  are 
lieber  Gott's  little  girls  ?  " 

Now  I  protest  I  had  never  told  those  babies 
anything  of  the  sort.  I  answer  their  questions  to 
the  best  of  my  ability  and  as  conscientiously  as  I 
can,  and  then,  when  I  hear  them  talking  together 
afterwards,  I  am  staggered  by  the  impression  thev 
appear  to  have  received.  They  live  in  a  whole 
world  of  independent  ideas  in  regard  to  heaven 
and  the  angels,  ideas  quite  distinct  from  other 
people's,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out,  believe  that 
the  Being  they  call  lieber  Gott  pervades  the  garden, 
and  is  identical  with,  among  other  things,  the 
sunshine  and  the  air  on  a  fine  day.  I  never  told 
them  so,  nor,  I  am  sure,  did  Seraphine,  and  still 
less  Seraphine's  predecessor  Miss  Jones,  whose 
views   were   wholly   material ;    yet    if,   on   bright 


92  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

mornings,  I  forget  to  Immediately  open  all  the 
library  windows  on  coming  down,  the  April  baby 
runs  in,  and  with  quite  a  worried  look  on  her 
face  cries,  "  Mummy,  won't  you  open  the  win- 
dows and  let  the  lieber  Gott  come  in  ?  " 

If  they  were  less  rosy  and  hungry,  or  if  I  were 
less    prosaic,   I   might    have  gloomy  forebodings 
that  such  keen  interest  in  things  and  beings  celes- 
tial was  prophetic  of  a  short  life ;  and  in  books, 
we  know,  the  children  who  talk  much  on  these 
topics  invariably  die,  after  having  given  their  rev- 
erential parents  a  quantity  of  advice.     Fortunately 
such  children  are  confined  to  books,  and  there  is 
nothing  of  the  ministering  child  —  surely  a  very 
uncomfortable  form  of  infant  —  about  my  babies. 
Indeed,   I   notice  that  in  their  conversations  to- 
gether on  such  matters  a  healthy  spirit  of  contra- 
diction prevails,  and  this  afternoon,  after  having 
accepted  April's  definition  of  angels  with  appar- 
ent reverence,  the  June  baby  electrified  the  other 
two   (always  more  orthodox  and  yielding)  by  re- 
marking that  she  hoped  she  would  never  go  to 
heaven.      I    pretended    to  be   deep   in  my  book 
and  not  listening;    April  and   May  were  sitting 
on    the  grass   sewing    ("needling"   they  call    it) 
fearful-looking  woolwork    things  for  Seraphine's 


JULY  93 

birthday,  and  June  was  leaning  idly  against  a 
pine  trunk,  swinging  a  headless  doll  round  and 
round  by  its  one  remaining  leg,  her  heels  well 
dug  into  the  ground,  her  sun-bonnet  off,  and 
all  the  yellow  tangles  of  her  hair  failing  across 
her  sunburnt,  grimy  little  face. 

"  No,"  she  repeated  firmly,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  her  sisters'  startled  faces,  "  I  don't  want  to. 
There's  nothing  there  for  babies  to  play  with." 

"  Nothing  to  play  with  ?  "  exclaimed  the  other 
two  in  a  breath  —  and  throwing  down  their  needle- 
work they  made  a  simultaneous  rush  for  me. 

"  Mummy,  did  you  hear  ?  June  says  she 
doesn't  want  to  go  into  the  Himmel !  "  cried 
April,  horror-stricken. 

"  Because  there's  nothing  to  play  with  there, 
she  savs,"  cried  May,  breathlessly ;  and  then 
they  added  with  one  voice,  as  though  the  sub- 
ject had  long  ago  been  threshed  out  and  settled 
between  them,  "  Why,  she  can  play  at  ball  there 
with  all  the  Sternleins  if  she  likes  !  " 

The  idea  of  the  June  baby  striding  across  the 
firmament  and  hurling  the  stars  about  as  carelessly 
as  though  they  were  tennis-balls  was  so  magnificent 
that  it  sent  shivers  of  awe  through  me  as  I  read. 

"  But  if  you  break  all  your  dolls,"  added  April, 


94  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

turning  severely  to  June,  and  eyeing  the  distorted 
remains  in  her  hand,  "  I  don't  think  lieber  Gott 
will  let  you  in  at  all.  When  you're  big  and  have 
tiny  Junes  —  real  live  Junes  —  I  think  you'll 
break  them  too,  and  lieber  Gott  doesn't  love 
mummies  what  breaks  their  babies." 

"  But  I  must  break  my  dolls,"  cried  June, 
stung  into  indignation  by  what  she  evidently 
regarded  as  celestial  injustice  ;  "  lieber  Gott  made 
me  that  way,  so  I  can't  help  doing  it,  can  I, 
mummy?  " 

On  these  occasions  I  keep  my  eyes  fixed  on  my 
book,  and  put  on  an  air  of  deep  abstraction  ;  and 
indeed,  it  is  the  only  way  of  keeping  out  of 
theological  disputes  in  which  I  am  invariably 
worsted. 


July  I  c^th.  —  Yesterday,  as  it  was  a  cool  and 
windy  afternoon  and  not  as  pleasant  in  my  garden 
as  it  has  lately  been,  I  thought  I  would  go  into 
the  village  and  see  how  my  friends  the  farm  hands 
were  getting  on.  Philanthropv  is  intermittent 
with  me  as  with  most  people,  only  they  do  not  say 
so,  and  seize  me  like  a  cold  in  the  head  whenever 
the  weather  is  chilly.   On  warm  days  my  bump  of 


JULY  95 

benevolence  melts  away  entirely,  and  grows  bigger  in 
proportion  as  the  thermometer  descends.  When 
the  wind  is  in  the  east  it  is  quite  a  decent  size,  and 
about  January,  in  a  north-easterly  snowstorm,  it  is 
plainly  visible  to  the  most  casual  observer.  For  a 
few  weeks  from  then  to  the  end  of  February  I  can 
hold  up  my  head  and  look  our  parson  in  the  face, 
butduringthesummer,if  I  seehim  comingmy  mode 
of  progression  in  getting  out  of  the  way  is  described 
with  perfect  accuracy  by  the  verb  "  to  slink." 

The  village  consists  of  one  street  running 
parallel  to  the  outer  buildings  of  the  farm,  and 
the  cottages  are  one-storied,  each  with  rooms  for 
four  families  —  two  in  front,  looking  on  to  the  wall 
of  the  farmyard,  which  is  the  fashionable  side,  and 
two  at  the  back,  looking  on  to  nothing  more 
exhilarating  than  their  own  pigstyes.  Each  family 
has  one  room  and  a  larder  sort  of  place,  and  shares 
the  kitchen  with  the  family  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  entrance;  but  the  women  prefer  doing  their 
cooking  at  the  grate  in  their  own  room  rather 
than  expose  the  contents  of  their  pots  to  the  ill- 
natured  comments  of  a  neighbour.  On  the 
fashionable  side  there  is  a  little  fenced-in  garden 
for  every  family,  where  fowls  walk  about  pensively 
and  meditate  beneath  the  scarlet-runners  (for  all 


96  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

the  world  like  me  in  my  garden),  and  hollyhocks 
tower  above  the  drying  linen,  and  fuel,  stolen  from 
our  woods,  is  stacked  for  winter  use ;  but  on  the 
other  side  you  walk  straight  out  of  the  door  on  to 
manure  heaps  and  pigs. 

The  street  did  not  look  very  inviting  yesterday, 
with  a  lowering  sky  above,  and  the  wind  blowing 
dust  and  bits  of  straw  and  paper  into  my  face  and 
preventing  me  from  seeing  what  I  knew  to  be 
there,  a  consoling  glimpse  of  green  fields  and  fir 
woods  down  at  the  other  end;  but  I  had  not  been 
for  a  long  while  —  we  have  had  such  a  lovely 
summer  —  and  something  inside  me  had  kept  on 
saying  aggressively  all  the  morning,  "  Elizabeth, 
don't  you  know  you  are  due  in  the  village?  Why 
don't  you  go  then?  When  are  you  going? 
Don't  you  know  you  ought  to  go  ?  Don't  you 
feel  you  must  ?  Elizabeth,  pull  yourself  together 
and  goy  Strange  effect  of  a  grey  sky  and  a  cool 
wind !  For  I  protest  that  if  it  had  been  warm  and 
sunny  my  conscience  would  not  have  bothered 
about  me  at  all.  We  had  a  short  fight  over  it,  in 
which  I  got  all  the  knocks,  as  was  evident  by  the 
immediate  swelling  of  the  bump  alluded  to  above, 
and  then  I  gave  in,  and  by  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  was  lifting  the  latch  of  the  first  door 


JULY  97 

and  asking  the  woman  who  Hved  behind  it  what 
she  had  given  the  family  for  dinner.  This,  I  was 
instructed  on  my  first  round  by  the  Frau  Inspector, 
is  the  proper  thing  to  ask ;  and  if  you  can  follow 
it  up  by  an  examination  of  the  contents  of  the 
saucepan,  and  a  gentle  sniff  indicative  of  your 
appreciation  of  their  savouriness,  so  much  the 
better.  I  was  diffident  at  first  about  this,  but  the 
gratification  on  their  faces  at  the  interest  displayed 
is  so  unmistakable  that  I  never  now  omit  going 
through  the  whole  business.  This  woman,  the 
wife  of  one  of  the  men  who  clean  and  feed  the 
cows,  has  arrived  at  that  enviable  stage  of  exist- 
ence when  her  children  have  all  been  confirmed 
and  can  go  out  to  work,  leaving  her  to  spend  her 
days  in  her  clean  and  empty  room  in  comparative 
dignity  and  peace.  The  children  go  to  school 
till  they  are  fourteen,  then  they  are  confirmed,  are 
considered  grfewn  up,  and  begin  to  work  for 
wages ;  and  her  three  strapping  daughters  were 
out  in  the  fields  yesterday  reaping.  The  mother 
has  a  keen,  shrewd  face,  and  everything  about  her 
was  neat  and  comfortable.  Her  floor  was  freshly 
strewn  with  sand,  her  cups  and  saucers  and  spoons 
shone  bright  and  clean  from  behind  the  glass 
door  of  the  cupboard,  and  the  two  beds,  one  for 


98  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

herself  and  her  husband  and  the  other  for  her 
three  daughters,  were  more  mountainous  than  any 
I  afterwards  saw.  The  size  and  plumpness  of  her 
feather  beds,  the  Frau  Inspector  tells  me,  is  a 
woman's  chief  claim  to  consideration  from  the 
neighbours.  She  who  can  pile  them  up  nearest  to 
the  ceiling  becomes  the  principal  personage  in  the 
community,  and  a  flat  bed  is  a  social  disgrace.  It 
is  a  mystery  to  me,  when  I  see  the  narrowness  of 
the  bedsteads,  how  so  many  people  can  sleep  in 
them.  They  are  rather  narrower  than  what  are 
known  as  single  beds,  yet  father  and  mother  and 
often  a  baby  manage  to  sleep  very  well  in  one,  and 
three  or  four  children  in  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  room  in  another.  The  explanation  no  doubt 
is  that  they  do  not  know  what  nerves  are,  and 
what  it  is  to  be  wakened  by  the  slightest  sound 
or  movement  in  the  room  and  lie  for  hours  after- 
wards, often  the  whole  night,  totally  unable  to 
fall  asleep  again,  staring  out  into  the  darkness 
with  eyes  that  refuse  to  shut.  No  nerves,  and  a 
thick  skin  —  what  inestimable  blessings  to  these 
poor  people  !     And  they  never  heard  of  either. 

I  stood  a  httle  while  talking,  not  asked  to  sit 
down,  for  that  would  be  thought  a  liberty,  and 
hearing  how  they  had  had  potatoes   and  bacon 


JULY  99 

for  dinner,  and  how  the  eldest  girl  Bertha  was 
going  to  be  married  at  Michaelmas,  and  how  well 
her  baby  was  getting  through  its  teething. 

"  Her  baby  ? "  I  echoed,  "  I  have  not  heard 
of  a  baby  ?  " 

The  woman  went  to  one  of  the  beds  and  lifted 
up  a  corner  of  the  great  bag  of  feathers,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  lay  a  round  and  placid  baby, 
sleeping  as  sweetly  and  looking  as  cherubic  as  the 
most  legitimate  of  its  contemporaries. 

"And  he  is  going  to  marry  her  at  Michaelmas?  " 
I  asked,  looking  as  sternly  as  I  could  at  the  grand- 
mother. 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  replied,  "  he  is  a  good  young 
man,  and  earns  eighteen  marks  a  week.  They 
will  be  very  comfortable." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  I  said,  "  that  the  baby  did  not 
make  its  appearance  after  Michaelmas  instead  of 
before.  Don't  you  see  yourself  what  a  pity  it  is, 
and  how  everything  has  been  spoilt  ?  " 

She  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  with  a  puzzled 
look,  and  then  turned  away  and  carefully  covered 
the  cherub  again.  "  They  will  be  very  comfort- 
able," she  repeated,  seeing  that  I  expected  an 
answer  ;   "  he  earns  eighteen  marks  a  week." 

What  was  there  to  be  said  ?     If  I  had  told  her 


100  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

her  daughter  was  a  grievous  sinner  she  might 
perhaps  have  felt  transiently  uncomfortable,  but 
as  soon  as  I  had  gone  would  have  seen  for  her- 
self, with  those  shrewd  eyes  of  hers,  that  nothing 
had  been  changed  by  my  denunciations,  that  there 
lay  the  baby,  dimpled  and  healthy,  that  her 
daughter  was  making  a  good  match,  that  none  of 
her  set  saw  anything  amiss,  and  that  all  the  young 
couples  in  the  district  had  prefaced  their  marriages 
in  this  way. 

Our  parson  is  troubled  to  the  depths  of  his 
sensitive  soul  by  this  custom.  He  preaches,  he 
expostulates,  he  denounces,  he  implores,  and  they 
listen  with  square  stolid  faces  and  open  mouths, 
and  go  back  to  their  daily  work  among  their 
friends  and  acquaintances,  with  no  feeling  of 
shame,  because  everybody  does  it,  and  public 
opinion,  the  only  force  that  could  stop  it,  is  on 
their  side.  The  parson  looks  on  with  unutterable 
sadness  at  the  futility  of  his  efforts ;  but  the 
material  is  altogether  too  raw  for  successful  ma- 
nipulation by  delicate  fingers. 

"  Poor  things,"  I  said  one  day,  in  answer  to  an 
outburst  of  indignation  from  him,after  he  had  been 
marrying  one  of  our  servants  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
"  I  am  so  sorry  for  them.     It  is  so  pitiful  that  they 


JULY  10 1 

should  always  have  to  be  scolded  on  their  wedding 
day.  Such  children  —  so  ignorant,  so  uncontrolled, 
so  frankly  animal — what  do  they  know  about 
social  laws  ?  They  only  know  and  follow  nature, 
and  I  would  from  my  heart  forgive  them  all." 

"  It  is  sifiy'  he  said  shortly. 

"Then  the  forgiveness  is  sure." 

"  Not  if  they  do  not  seek  it." 

I  was  silent,  for  I  wished  to  reply  that  I  believed 
they  would  be  forgiven  in  spite  of  themselves,  that 
probably  they  were  forgiven  whether  they  sought 
it  or  not,  and  that  you  cannot  limit  things  divine; 
but  who  can  argue  with  a  parson  ?  These  people 
do  not  seek  forgiveness  because  it  never  enters 
their  heads  that  they  need  it.  The  parson  tells 
them  so,  it  is  true,  but  they  regard  him  as  a  person 
bound  by  his  profession  to  say  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  are  sharp  enough  to  see  that  the  conse- 
quences of  their  sin,  foretold  by  him  with  such 
awful  eloquence,  never  by  any  chance  come  off. 
No  girl  is  left  to  languish  and  die  forsaken  by  her 
betrayer,  for  the  betrayer  is  a  worthy  young  man 
who  marries  her  as  soon  as  he  possibly  can  ;  no 
finger  of  scorn  is  pointed  at  the  fallen  one,  for  all 
the  fingers  in  the  street  are  attached  to  women  who 
began  life  in  precisely  the  same  fashion  ;  and  as  for 


102  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

that  problematical  Day  of  Judgment  of  which  they 
hear  so  much  on  Sundays,  perhaps  they  feel  that 
that  also  may  be  one  of  the  things  which  after  all 
do  not  happen. 

The  servant  who  had  been  married  and  scolded 
that  morning  was  a  groom,  aged  twenty,  and  he 
had  met  his  little  wife,  she  being  then  seventeen,  in 
the  place  he  was  in  before  he  came  to  us.  She  was 
a  housemaid  there,  and  must  have  been  a  pretty 
thing,  though  there  were  few  enough  traces  of  it, 
except  the  beautiful  eyes,  in  the  little  anxious  face 
that  I  saw  for  the  first  time  immediately  after  the 
wedding,  and  just  before  the  weary  and  harassed 
parson  came  in  to  talk  things  over.  I  had  never 
heard  of  her  existence  until,  about  ten  days  pre- 
viously, the  groom  had  appeared,  bathed  in  tears, 
speechlessly  holding  out  a  letter  from  her  in  which 
she  said  she  could  not  bear  things  any  longer  and 
was  going  to  kill  herself.  The  wretched  young 
man  was  at  his  wit's  end,  for  he  had  not  yet  saved 
enough  to  buy  any  furniture  and  set  up  house- 
keeping, and  she  was  penniless  after  so  many 
months  out  of  a  situation.  He  did  not  know  any 
way  out  of  it,  he  had  no  suggestions  to  offer,  no 
excuses  to  make,  and  just  stood  there  helplessly 
and  sobbed. 


JULY  103 

I  went  to  the  Man  of  Wrath,  and  we  laid  our 
heads  together.  "  We  do  not  want  another  married 
servant,"  he  said. 

"No,  of  course  we  don't,"  said  I. 
-     "  And  there  is  not  a  room  empty  in  the  village." 

"  No,  not  one." 

"  And  how  can  we  give  him  furniture  ?  It  is 
not  fair  to  the  other  servants  who  remain  virtuous, 
and  wait  till  they  can  buy  their  own." 

"  No,  certainly  it  isn't  fair." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  He  is  a  good  boy,"  I  murmured  presently. 

"  A  very  good  boy." 

"And  she  will  be  quite  ruined  unless  some- 
body  " 

"  ril  tell  you  what  we  can  do,  Elizabeth,"  he 
interrupted  ;  "  we  can  buy  what  is  needful  and  let 
him  have  it  on  condition  that  he  buys  it  back 
gradually  by  some  small  monthly  payment." 

"  So  we  can," 

"  And  I  think  there  is  a  room  over  the  stables 
that  is  empty." 

"  So  there  is." 

"  And  he  can  go  to  town  and  get  what  furniture 
he  needs  and  bring  the  girl  back  with  him  and  marry 
her  at  once.     The  sooner  the  better,  poor  girl." 


104  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

And  so  within  a  fortnight  they  were  married, 
and  came  hand  in  hand  to  me,  he  proud  and  happy, 
holding  himself  very  straight,  she  in  no  wise  yet 
recovered  from  the  shock  and  misery  of  the  last 
few  hopeless  months,  looking  up  at  me  with  eyes 
grown  much  too  big  for  her  face,  eyes  in  which 
there  still  lurked  the  frightened  look  caught  in  the 
town  where  she  had  hidden  herself,  and  where 
fingers  of  scorn  could  not  have  been  wanting,  and 
loud  derision,  and  utter  shame,  besides  the  burden 
of  sickness,  and  hunger,  and  miserable  pitiful 
youth. 

They  stood  hand  in  hand,  she  in  a  decent  black 
dress,  and  both  wearing  very  tight  white  kid  gloves 
that  refused  to  hide  entirely  the  whole  of  the  rough 
red  hands,  and  they  looked  so  ridiculously  young, 
and  the  whole  thing  was  so  wildly  improvident, 
that  no  words  of  exhortation  would  come  to  my 
lips  as  I  gazed  at  them  in  silence,  between  laughter 
and  tears.  I  ought  to  have  told  them  they  were 
sinners  ;  I  ought  to  have  told  them  they  were 
reckless  ;  I  ought  to  have  told  them  by  what  a 
narrow  chance  they  had  escaped  the  just  punish- 
ment of  their  iniquity,  and  instead  of  that  I  found 
myself  stretching  out  hands  that  were  at  once  seized 
and  kissed,  and  merely  saying  with  a  cheerful  smile, 


JULY  105 

*^Nun  Kinder^  liebt  Euch,  und  seid  brav."  And 
so  they  were  dismissed,  and  then  the  parson  came, 
in  a  fever  at  this  latest  example  of  deadly  sin,  while 
I,  with  the  want  of  moral  sense  so  often  observable 
in  woman,  could  only  think  with  pity  of  their 
childishness.  The  baby  was  born  three  days  later, 
and  the  mother  very  nearly  slipped  through  our 
fingers  ;  but  she  was  a  country  girl,  and  she  fought 
round,  and  by  and  by  grew  young  again  in  the 
warmth  of  married  respectability  ;  and  1  met  her 
the  other  day  airing  her  baby  in  the  sun,  and 
holding  her  head  as  high  as  though  she  were 
conscious  of  a  whole  row  of  feather  beds  at  home, 
every  one  of  which  touched  the  ceiling. 

In  the  next  room  I  went  into  an  old  woman 
lay  in  bed  with  her  head  tied  up  in  bandages. 
The  room  had  not  much  in  it,  or  it  would  have 
been  untidier ;  it  looked  neglected  and  gloomy, 
and  some  dirty  plates,  suggestive  of  long-past 
dinners,  were  piled  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  such  headaches !  "  groaned  the  old  woman 
when  she  saw  me,  and  moved  her  head  from  side 
to  side  on  the  pillow.  I  could  see  she  was  not 
undressed,  and  had  crept  under  her  feather  bag  as 
she  was.  I  went  to  the  bedside  and  felt  her  pulse 
—  a  steady  pulse,  with  nothing  of  feverishness  in  it. 


io6  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  Oh,  such  draughts  !  "  moaned  the  old  woman, 
when  she  saw  I  had  left  the  door  open. 

"A  little  air  will  make  you  feel  better,"  I  said; 
the  atmosphere  in  the  shut-up  room  was  so  in- 
describable that  my  own  head  had  begun  to  throb. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  she  moaned,  in  visible  indignation 
at  being  forced  for  a  moment  to  breathe  the  pure 
summer  air. 

"  I  have  something  at  home  that  will  cure  your 
headache,"  I  said,  "but  there  is  nobody  I  can  send 
with  it  to-day.  If  you  feel  better  later  on,  come 
round  and  fetch  it.  I  always  take  it  when  I 
have  a  headache  "  —  ("  Why,  Elizabeth,  you  know 
you  never  have  such  things!"  whispered  my 
conscience,  appalled.  "  You  just  keep  quiet,"  I 
whispered  back,  "  I  have  had  enough  of  you  for 
one  day.")  —  "and  I  have  some  grapes  I  will 
give  you  when  you  come,  so  that  if  you  possibly 
can,  do." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  move,"  groaned  the  old  woman, 
"  oh,  oh,  oh  !  "  But  I  went  away  laughing,  for 
I  knew  she  would  appear  punctually  to  fetch  the 
grapes,  and  a  walk  in  the  air  was  all  she  needed 
to  cure  her. 

How  the  whole  village  hates  and  dreads  fresh 
air !     A    baby    died    a    few    days    ago,    killed,  I 


JULY  107 

honestly  believe,  by  the  exceeding  love  of  its 
mother,  which  took  the  form  of  cherishing  it  so 
tenderly  that  never  once  during  its  little  life  was 
a  breath  of  air  allowed  to  come  anywhere  near  it. 
She  is  the  watchman's  wife,  a  gentle,  flabby  woman, 
with  two  rooms  at  her  disposal,  but  preferring  to 
live  and  sleep  with  her  four  children  in  one,  never 
going  into  the  other  except  for  the  christenings 
and  funerals  which  take  place  in  her  family  with 
what  I  cannot  but  regard  as  unnecessary  frequency. 
This  baby  was  born  last  September  in  a  time  of 
golden  days  and  quiet  skies,  and  when  it  was 
about  three  weeks  old  I  suggested  that  she  should 
take  it  out  every  day  while  the  fine  weather  lasted. 
She  pointed  out  that  it  had  not  yet  been  christened, 
and  remembering  that  it  is  the  custom  in  their 
class  for  both  mother  and  child  to  remain  shut  up 
and  invisible  till  after  the  christening,  I  said  no 
more.  Three  weeks  later  I  was  its  godmother, 
and  it  was  safely  got  into  the  fold  of  the  Church. 
As  I  was  leaving,  I  remarked  that  now  she  would 
be  able  to  take  it  out  as  much  as  she  liked.  The 
following  March,  on  a  day  that  smelt  of  violets, 
I  met  her  near  the  house.  I  asked  after  the  baby, 
and  she  began  to  cry.  "  It  does  not  thrive,"  she 
wept,  "  and  its  arms  are  no  thicker  than  my  finger." 


io8  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  Keep  It  out  in  the  sun  as  much  as  you  can," 
I  said  ;  "  this  is  the  very  weather  to  turn  weak 
babies  into  strong  ones." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  afraid  it  will  catch  cold  if  I  take 
it  out,"  she  cried,  her  face  buried  in  what  was 
once  a  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  When  was  it  out  last  ?  " 

"Oh  — "  she  stopped  to  blow  her  nose,  very 
violently,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  superfluous 
thoroughness.  I  waited  till  she  had  done,  and 
then  repeated  my  question. 

"Oh  — "  a  fresh  burst  of  tears,  and  renewed 
exhaustive  nose-blowing. 

I  began  to  suspect  that  my  question,  put 
casually,  was  of  more  importance  than  I  had 
thought,  and  repeated  it  once  more. 

"I — can't  t — take  it  out,"  she  sobbed,  "I 
know  it  —  it  would  die." 

"  But  has  it  not  been  out  at  all,  then  ? " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  once  since  it  was  born  ?  Six  months  ago  ? " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Poor  baby  !  "  I  exclaimed  ;  and  indeed  from 
my  heart  I  pitied  the  little  thing,  perishing  in  a 
heap  of  feathers,  in  one  close  room,  with  four 
people  absorbing  what  air  there  was.  "  I  am  afraid," 


JULY  109 

I  said,  "  that  if  it  does  not  soon  get  some  fresh  air 
it  will  not  live.  I  wonder  what  would  happen  to 
my  children  if  I  kept  them  in  one  hot  room  day 
and  night  for  six  months.  You  see  how  they  are 
-out  all  day,  and  how  well  they  are." 

"  Thev  are  so  strong,"  she  said,  with  a  doleful 
sniff,  "  that  they  can  stand  it." 

I  was  confounded  by  this  way  of  looking  at  it, 
and  turned  away,  after  once  more  begging  her  to 
take  the  child  out.  She  plainly  regarded  the 
advice  as  brutal,  and  I  heard  her  blowing  her  nose 
all  down  the  drive.  In  June  the  father  told  me 
he  would  like  the  doctor ;  the  child  grew  thinner 
every  day  in  spite  of  all  the  food  it  took.  A 
doctor  was  got  from  the  nearest  town,  and  I  went 
across  to  hear  what  he  ordered.  He  ordered 
bottles  at  regular  intervals  instead  of  the  unbroken 
series  it  had  been  having,  and  fresh  air.  He 
could  find  nothing  the  matter  with  it,  except 
unusual  weakness.  He  asked  if  it  always  per- 
spired as  it  was  doing  then,  and  himself  took  off 
the  topmost  bag  of  feathers.  Early  in  July  it 
died,  and  its  first  outing  was  to  the  cemetery  in 
the  pine  woods  three  miles  off. 

"  I  took  such  care  of  it,"  moaned  the  mother, 
when    I   went  to   try  and   comfort  her   after   the 


no  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

funeral ;  "  it  would  never  have  lived  so  long  bui 
for  the  care  I  took  of  it." 

"  And  what  the  doctor  ordered  did  no  good  ?  *" 
I  ventured  to  ask,  as  gently  as  I  could. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  take  it  out —  how  could  I  — 
it  would  have  killed  it  at  once  —  at  least  I  hav( 
kept  it  alive  till  now."  And  she  flung  her  arms 
across  the  table,  and  burying  her  head  in  them 
wept  bitterly. 

There  is  a  great  wall  of  ignorance  and  prejudice 
dividing  us  from  the  people  on  our  place,  and  in 
every  effort  to  help  them  we  knock  against  it  and 
cannot  move  it  any  more  than  if  it  were  actual 
stone.  Like  the  parson  on  the  subject  of  morals, 
I  can  talk  till  I  am  hoarse  on  the  subject  of  health, 
without  at  anytime  producing  the  faintest  impres- 
sion. When  things  are  very  bad  the  doctor  is 
brought,  directions  are  given,  medicines  made  up, 
and  his  orders,  unless  they  happen  to  be  approved 
of,  are  simply  not  carried  out.  Orders  to  wash 
a  patient  and  open  windows  are  never  obeyed, 
because  the  whole  village  would  rise  up  if,  later 
on,  the  illness  ended  in  death,  and  accuse  the 
relatives  of  murder.  I  suppose  they  regard  us 
and  our  like  who  live  on  the  other  side  of  the 
dividing  wall  as  persons  of  fantastic  notions  which, 


JULY  III 

when  carried  into  effect  among  our  own  children, 
do  no  harm  because  of  the  vast  strength  of  the 
children  accumulated  during  years  of  eating  in  the 
quantities  only  possible  to  the  rich.  Their  idea 
of  happiness  is  eating,  and  they  naturally  suppose 
that  everybody  eats  as  much  as  he  can  possibly 
afford  to  buv.  Some  of  them  have  known  hunger, 
and  food  and  strength  are  coupled  together  in 
their  experience  —  the  more  food  the  greater  the 
strength ;  and  people  who  eat  roast  meat  (oh, 
bliss  ineffable ! )  every  day  of  their  lives  can  bear 
an  amount  of  washing  and  airing  that  would 
surely  kill  such  as  themselves.  But  how  useless 
to  try  and  discover  what  their  views  really  are. 
I  can  imagine  what  I  like  about  them,  and  am 
fairly  certain  to  imagine  wrong.  I  have  no  real 
conception  of  their  attitude  towards  life,  and  all 
I  can  do  is  to  talk  to  them  kindly  when  they  are 
in  trouble,  and  as  often  as  I  can  give  them  nice 
things  to  eat.  Shocked  at  the  horrors  that  must 
surround  the  poor  women  at  the  birth  of  their 
babies,  I  asked  the  Man  of  Wrath  to  try  and 
make  some  arrangement  that  would  ensure  their 
quiet  at  those  times.  He  put  aside  a  little  cottage 
at  the  end  of  the  street  as  a  home  for  them  in 
their  confinements,  and  I  furnished  it,  and  made 


112  THE   SOLITARY   SUMiMER 

it  clean  and  bright  and  pretty.  A  nurse  was  per^ 
manently  engaged,  and  I  thought  with  delight  of 
the  unspeakable  blessing  and  comfort  it  was  going 
to  be.  Not  a  baby  has  been  born  in  that  cottage, 
for  not  a  woman  has  allowed  herself  to  be  taken 
there.  At  the  end  of  a  year  it  had  to  be  let  out 
again  to  families,  and  the  nurse  dismissed. 

"  JVhy  wouldn't  they  go  ?  "  I  asked  the  Frau 
Inspector,  completely  puzzled.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders.  "  They  like  their  husband  and  children 
round  them,"  she  said,  "  and  are  afraid  something 
will  be  done  to  them  away  from  home  —  that  they 
will  be  washed  too  often,  perhaps.  The  gracious 
lady  will  never  get  them  to  leave  their  homes." 
"  The  gracious  lady  gives  it  up,"  I  muttered. 

When  I  opened  the  next  door  I  was  bewildered 
by  the  crowd  in  the  room.  A  woman  stood  in 
the  middle  at  a  wash-tub  which  took  up  most  of 
the  space.  Every  now  and  then  she  put  out  a 
dripping  hand  and  jerked  a  perambulator  up  and 
down  for  a  moment,  to  calm  the  shrieks  of  the 
baby  inside.  On  a  wooden  bench  at  the  foot  of 
one  of  the  three  beds  a  very  old  man  sat  and 
blinked  at  nothing.  Crouching  in  a  corner  were 
two  small  boys  of  pasty  complexion,  playing  with 
a  guinea-pig  and  coughing  violently.     The  love- 


JULY  113 

liest  little  girl  I  have  seen  for  a  very  long  while 
lay  in  the  bed  nearest  the  door,  quite  silent, 
with  her  eyes  closed  and  her  mouth  shut  tight, 
as  though  she  were  trying  hard  to  bear  some- 
thing. As  I  pulled  the  door  open  the  first  thing 
I  saw,  right  up  against  it,  was  this  set  young  face 
framed  in  tossed  chestnut  hair.  "  Why,  Frau- 
chen^'  I  said  to  the  woman  at  the  tub,  "  so  many 
of  you  at  home  to-day  ?  Are  you  all  ill  ?  " 
There  was  hardly  standing  room  for  an  extra 
person,  and  the  room  was  full  of  steam. 

"  They  have  all  got  the  cough  I  had,"  she 
answered,  without  looking  up,  "  and  Lotte  there 
is  very  bad." 

I  took  Lotte's  rough  little  hand  —  so  different 
from  the  delicate  face — and  found  she  was  in  a  fever. 

"  We  must  get  the  doctor,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  the  doctor — "  said  the  mother  with  a 
shrug,  "  he's  no  use." 

"  You  must  do  what  he  tells  you,  or  he  cannot 
help  vou." 

"  That  last  medicine  he  sent  me  all  but  killed 
me,"  she  said,  washing  vigorously.  "  I'll  never  take 
any  more  of  his,  nor  shall  any  child  of  mine." 

"  What  medicine  was  it  ?  " 

She  wiped  her  hand  on  her  apron,  and  reaching 


114  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

across  to  the  cupboard  took  out  a  little  bottle.  "  1 
was  in  bed  two  days  after  it,"  she  said,  handing  it 
to  me — "as  though  I  were  dead,  not  knowing  what 
was  going  on  round  me."  The  bottle  had  con- 
tained opium,  and  there  were  explicit  directions 
written  on  it  as  to  the  number  of  drops  to  be  taken 
and  the  length  of  the  intervals  between  the  taking. 

"  Did  you  do  exactly  what  is  written  here  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  I  took  it  all  at  once.  There  wasn't  much  of 
it,  and  I  was  feeling  bad." 

"  But  then  of  course  it  nearly  killed  you.  I 
wonder  it  didn't  quite.  What  good  is  it  our  taking 
all  the  trouble  we  do  to  send  that  long  distance  for 
the  doctor  if  you  don't  do  as  he  orders  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  no  more  of  his  medicine.  If  it  had 
been  any  good  and  able  to  cure  me,  the  more  I  took 
the  quicker  I  ought  to  have  been  cured."  And 
she  scrubbed  and  thumped  with  astounding  energy, 
while  Lotte  lay  with  her  little  ashen  face  a  shade 
more  set  and  suffering.  The  wash-tub,  though  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  was  quite  close  to  Lotte's 
bed,  because  the  middle  of  the  room  was  quite 
close  to  every  other  part  of  it,  and  each  extra  hard 
maternal  thump  must  have  hit  the  child's  head  like 
a  blow  from  a  hammer.     She  was,  you  see,  only 


JULY  115 

thirteen,  and  her  skin  had  not  had  time  to  turn 
into  leather. 

"  Has  this  child  eaten  anything  to-day  ?  " 

"  She  won't." 

"  Is  she  not  thirsty  ?  " 

"  She  won't  drink  coffee  or  milk." 

"  I'll  send  her  something  she  may  like,  and  I 
shall  send,  too,  for  the  doctor." 

"  I'll  not  give  her  his  stuff." 

"  Let  me  beg  you  to  do  as  he  tells  you." 

"  I'll  not  give  her  his  stuff." 

"  Was  it  absolutely  necessary  to  wash  to-day?" 

"  It's  the  day." 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  I  to  myself,  gazing 
at  her  with  outward  blandness,  "  I'd  like  exceed- 
ingly to  tip  you  up  into  your  wash-tub  and  thump 
you  as  thoroughly  as  you  are  thumping  those 
unfortunate  clothes."  Aloud  I  said  in  flute-like 
tones  of  conciliation,  "Good  afternoon." 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  she  without  looking  up. 

Washing  days  always  mean  tempers,  and  I 
ought  to  have  fled  at  the  first  sight  of  that  tub, 
but  then  there  was  Lotte  in  her  little  yellow  flannel 
night-gown,  suff-'ering  as  only  children  can  suffer, 
helpless,  forced  to  patience,  forced  to  silent  endur- 
ance of  any  banging  and  vehemence  in  which  her 


ii6  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

mother  might  choose  to  indulge.  No  wonder  her 
mouth  was  shut  Hke  a  clasp  and  she  would  not 
open  her  eyes.  Her  eyebrows  were  reddish  like 
her  hair,  and  very  straight,  and  her  eyelashes  lay 
dusky  and  long  on  her  white  face.  At  least  I  had 
discovered  Lotte  and  could  help  her  a  little,  I 
thought,  as  I  departed  down  the  garden  path 
between  the  rows  of  scarlet-runners;  but  the  help 
that  takes  the  form  of  jelly  and  iced  drinks  is  not 
of  a  lasting  nature,  and  I  have  but  little  sympathy 
with  a  benevolence  that  finds  its  highest  expression 
in  gifts  of  the  kind.  There  have  been  women 
within  my  experience  who  went  down  into  the 
grave  accompanied  by  special  pastoral  encomiums, 
and  whose  claims  to  lady-bountifulness,  on  closer 
inquiry,  rested  solely  on  a  foundation  of  jelly. 
Yet  nothing  in  the  world  is  easier  than  ordering 
jelly  to  be  sent  to  the  sick,  except  refraining  from 
ordering  it.  What  more,  however,  could  I  do  for 
Lotte  than  this  ?  I  could  not  take  her  up  in  my 
arms  and  run  away  with  her  and  nurse  her  back  to 
health,  for  she  would  probably  object  to  such  a 
course  as  strongly  as  her  mother ;  and  later  on, 
when  she  gets  well  again,  she  will  go  back  to  school, 
and  grow  coarse  and  bouncing  and  leathery  like  the 
others,  affording  the  parson,  in  three  or  four  years' 


JULY  117 

time,  a  fresh  occasion  for  grief  over  deadly  sin. 
"  If  one  could  only  get  hold  of  the  children  ! "  I 
sighed,  as  I  went  up  the  steps  into  the  school- 
house  ;  "  catch  them  young,  and  put  them  in  a 
.  garden,  with  no  older  people  of  their  own  class 
for  ever  teaching  them  by  example  what  is  ugly, 
and  unworthy,  and  gross." 

Afternoon  school  was  going  on,  and  the  assistant 
teacher  was  making  the  children  read  aloud  in 
turns.  In  winter,  when  they  would  be  glad  of  a 
warnx,  roomy  place  in  which  to  spend  their  after- 
noons, school  is  only  in  the  morning;  and  in 
summer,  when  the  thirstiest  after  knowledge  are 
apt  to  be  less  keen,  it  is  both  morning  and  afternoon. 
The  arrangement  is  so  mysterious  that  it  must  be 
providential.  Herr  Schenk,  the  head  master,  was 
away  giving  my  babies  their  daily  lessons,  and  his 
assistant,  a  youth  in  spectacles  but  yet  of  pugnacious 
aspect,  was  sitting  in  the  master's  desk,  exercising 
a  pretty  turn  for  sarcasm  in  his  running  comments 
on  the  reading.  A  more  complete  waste  of  breath 
and  brilliancy  can  hardly  be  imagined.  He  is  not 
yet,  however,  married,  and  marriage  is  a  great 
chastener.  The  children  all  stood  up  when  I  came 
in,  and  the  teacher  ceased  sharpening  his  wits  on  a 
dulness  that  could  not  feel,  and  with  many  bows 


ii8  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

put  a  chair  for  me  and  begged  me  to  sit  on  it.  1 
did  sit  on  it,  and  asked  that  they  might  go  on  with 
the  lesson,  as  I  had  only  come  in  for  a  minute  on 
my  way  down  the  street.  The  reading  was  accord- 
ingly resumed,  but  unaccompanied  this  time  by 
sarcasms.  What  faces !  What  dull,  apathetic, 
low,  coarse  faces  !  On  one  side  sat  those  from  ten 
to  fourteen,  with  not  a  hopeful  face  among  them, 
and  on  the  other  those  from  six  to  ten,  with  one 
single  little  boy  who  looked  as  though  he  could 
have  no  business  among  the  rest,  so  bright  was  he, 
so  attentive,  so  curiously  dignified.  Poor  children 
—  what  could  the  parson  hope  to  make  of  beings 
whose  expressions  told  so  plainly  of  the  sort  of 
nature  within  ?  Those  that  did  not  look  dull 
looked  cunning,  and  all  the  girls  on  the  older  side 
had  the  faces  of  women.  I  began  to  feel  dreadfully 
depressed.  "See  what  you  have  done,"  I  v/hispered 
angrily  to  my  conscience  —  "made  me  wretched 
without  doing  anybody  else  any  good."  "  The 
old  woman  with  the  headache  is  happy  in  the  hopes 
of  grapes,"  it  replied,  seeking  to  justify  itself,  "and 
Lotte  is  to  have  some  jelly."  "  Grapes!  Jelly  ! 
Futility  unutterable.  I  can't  bear  this,  and  am 
going  home."  The  teacher  inquired  whether  the 
children  should  sing  something  to  my  graciousness ; 


JULY  119 

perhaps  he  was  ashamed  of  their  reading,  and 
indeed  I  never  heard  anything  Hke  it.  "  Oh  yes," 
I  said,  resigned,  but  outwardly  smiHng  kindly  with 
the  self-control  natural  to  woman.  They  sang,  or 
rather  screamed,  a  hymn,  and  so  frightfully  loud  and 
piercingly  that  the  very  windows  shook.  "  My 
dear,"  explained  the  Man  of  Wrath,  when  I  com- 
plained one  Sunday  on  our  way  home  from  church 
of  the  terrible  quality  and  volume  of  the  music, 
"  it  frightens  Satan  away." 

Our  numerous  godchildren  were  not  in  school 
because,  as  we  have  only  lived  here  three  years, 
they  are  not  yet  old  enough  to  share  in  the 
blessings  of  education.  I  stand  godmother  to  the 
girls,  and  the  Man  of  Wrath  to  the  boys,  and  as 
all  the  babies  are  accordingly  named  after  us  the 
village  swarms  with  tiny  Elizabeths  and  Boys  of 
Wrath.  A  hunchbacked  woman,  unfit  for  harder 
work,  looks  after  the  babies  during  the  dav  in  a 
room  set  apart  for  that  purpose,  so  that  the 
mothers  may  not  be  hampered  in  their  duties  at 
the  farm ;  they  have  only  to  carry  the  babies 
there  in  the  morning,  and  fetch  them  away  again 
in  the  evening,  and  can  feel  that  they  are  safe  and 
well  looked  after.  But  many  of  them,  for  some 
reason  too  cryptic  to  fathom,  prefer  to  lock  them 


120  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

up  In  their  room,  exposed  to  all  the  perils  that 
surround  an  inquiring  child  just  able  to  walk,  and 
last  winter  one  little  creature  was  burnt  to  death, 
sacrificed  to  her  mother's  stupidity.  This  mother, 
a  fair  type  of  the  intelligence  prevailing  in  the 
village,  made  a  great  fire  in  her  room  before  going 
out,  so  that  when  she  came  back  at  noon  there 
would  still  be  some  with  which  to  cook  the  dinner, 
left  a  baby  in  a  perambulator,  and  a  little  Elizabeth 
of  three  loose  in  the  room,  locked  the  door,  put 
the  key  in  her  pocket,  and  went  off  to  work. 
When  she  came  back  to  get  the  dinner  ready,  the 
baby  was  still  crowing  placidly  in  its  perambulator, 
and  the  little  Elizabeth,  with  all  the  clothes  burnt 
off  her  body,  was  lying  near  the  grate  dead.  Of 
course  the  mother  was  wild  with  grief,  distracted, 
raving,  desperate,  and  of  course  all  the  other 
women  were  shocked  and  horrified  ;  but  point  the 
moral  as  we  might,  we  could  not  bring  them  to  see 
that  it  was  an  avoidable  misfortune  with  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  the  Finger  Gottes^  and  the 
mothers  who  preferred  locking  their  babies  up 
alone  to  sending  them  to  be  looked  after,  went  on 
doing  so  as  undisturbed  as  though  what  had  oc- 
curred could  in  no  wise  be  a  lesson  to  themselves. 
"  Pray,  Herr  Lehrer^  why  are  those  two  little 


JULY  121 

boys  sitting  over  there  on  that  seat  all  by  them- 
selves and  not  singing  ?  "  I  asked  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  hymn. 

"  That,  gracious  lady,  is  the  vermin  bench.  It 
is  necessary  to  keep " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  —  I  quite  understand  —  good 
afternoon.  Good-bye,  children,  you  have  sung 
very  nicely  indeed." 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  when  I  was  safely 
out  in  the  street  again,  "  I  am  going  home." 

"  Oh,  not  yet,"  at  once  protested  my  unmanage- 
able conscience  ;  "  your  favourite  old  woman  lives 
in  the  next  cottage,  and  surely  you  are  not  going 
to  leave  her  out  ?  " 

"I  see  plainly,"  I  replied,  "that  I  shall  never 
be  quite  comfortable  till  I  have  got  rid  of  you" 
and  in  I  went  to  the  next  house. 

The  entrance  was  full  of  three  women  —  the 
entrances  here  are  narrow,  and  the  women  wide  — 
and  they  all  looked  more  cheerful  than  seemed 
reasonable.  They  stood  aside  to  let  me  pass,  and 
when  I  opened  the  door  I  found  the  room  equally 
full  of  women,  looking  equally  happy,  and  talking 
eagerly. 

"  Why,  what  is  happening  ? "  I  asked  the 
nearest  one.     "  Is  there  a  party?  " 


122  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

She  turned  round,  grinning  broadly  in  obvious 
delight.  "  The  old  lady  died  in  her  sleep,"  she 
said,  "and  was  found  this  morning  dead  in  her  bed. 
I  was  in  here  only  yesterday,  and  she  said  — " 
I  turned  abruptly  and  went  out  again.  All  those 
gloating  women,  hovering  round  the  poor  body 
that  was  clothed  on  a  sudden  by  death  with  a 
wonderful  dignity  and  nobleness,  made  me  ashamed 
of  being  a  woman.  Not  a  man  was  there,  —  clearly 
a  superior  race  of  beings.  In  the  entrance  I  met 
the  Frau  Inspector  coming  in  to  arrange  matters, 
and  she  turned  and  walked  with  me  a  little  way. 

"  The  old  lady  was  better  off  than  we  thought," 
she  remarked,  "  and  has  left  a  very  good  black 
silk  dress  to  be  buried  in." 

"  A  black  silk  dress  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"  And  everything  to  match  in  goodness  —  nice 
leather  shoes,  good  stockings,  under-things  all 
trimmed  with  crochet,  real  whalebone  corsets,  and 
a  quite  new  pair  of  white  kid  gloves.     She  must 

have  saved  for  a  long   time   to    have   it   all   so 

>> 
nice. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  I   don't  understand.     I   have 

never    had  anything  to  do  yet  with  death,  and 

have  not  thought  of  these  things.    Are  not  people, 

then,  just  buried  in  a  shroud  ?  " 


JULY  123 

"A  shroud?"  It  was  her  turn  not  to  under- 
stand. 

"  A  sheet  sort  of  thhig." 

She  smiled  in  a  highly  superior  manner.  "  Oh 
dear,  no,"  she  said,  "  we  are  none  of  us  quite  so 
poor  as  that." 

I  glanced  down  at  her  as  she  walked  beside  me. 
She  is  a  short  woman,  and  carries  weight.  She 
was  smiling  almost  pityingly  at  my  ignorance  of 
what  is  due,  even  after  death,  to  ourselves  and 
public  opinion. 

"  The  very  poorest,"  she  said,  "  manage  to 
scrape  a  whole  set  of  clothes  together  for  their 
funerals.  A  very  poor  couple  came  here  a  few 
months  ago,  and  before  the  man  had  time  to  earn 
anything  he  died.  The  wife  came  to  me  (the 
gracious  lady  was  absent),  and  on  her  knees 
implored  me  to  give  her  a  suit  for  him  —  she  had 
only  been  able  to  afford  the  Sterbehemd^  and  was 
frantic  at  the  thought  of  what  the  neighbours 
would  say  if  he  had  nothing  on  but  that,  and  said 
she  would  be  haunted  by  shame  and  remorse  all 
the  rest  of  her  life.  We  bought  a  nice  black  suit, 
and  tie,  and  gloves,  and  he  really  looked  very  well. 
She  will  be  dressed  to-night,"  she  went  on,  as  I 
said  nothing;  "the  dressers  come  with  the  coffin, 


124  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

and  it  will  be  a  nice  funeral.  I  used  to  wonder 
what  she  did  with  her  pension  money,  and  never 
could  persuade  her  to  buy  herself  a  bit  of  meat. 
But  of  course  she  was  saving  for  this.  They  are 
beautiful  corsets." 

"  What  utter  waste  !  "  I  ejaculated. 

"Waste?" 

"  Yes  —  utter  waste  and  foolishness.     Foolish 
ness,  not    to  have  bought  a  few  little  comforts, 
waste  of  the  money,  and  waste  of  the  clothes.     Is 
there   any   meaning,  sense,  or   use   whatever   in 
burying  a  good  black  silk  dress  ? " 

"It  would  be  a  scandal  not  to  be  buried 
decently,"  she  replied,  manifestly  surprised  at  my 
warmth,  "  and  the  neighbours  respect  her  much 
more  now  that  they  know  what  nice  clothes  she 
had  bought  for  her  funeral.  Nothing  is  wanting. 
I  even  found  a  box  with  a  gold  brooch  in  it,  and 
a  bracelet." 

"  I  suppose,  then,  as  many  of  her  belongings 
as  will  go  into  the  coffin  will  be  buried  too,  in 
order  to  still  further  impress  the  neighbours  ?  "  I 
asked  —  "her  feather  bed,  for  instance,  and  any- 
thing else  of  use  and  value  ?  " 

"  No,  only  what  she  has  on,  and  the  brushes  and 
combs  and  towels  that  were  used  in  dressing  her." 


JULY  125 

"  How  ugly  and  how  useless  ! "  I  said  with  a 
shiver  of  disgust. 

"  It  is  the  custom,"  was  her  tranquil  reply. 

Suddenly  an  unpleasant  thought  struck  me,  and 
I  burst  out  emphatically,  "  Nothing  but  a  shroud 
is  to  be  put  on  me." 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  me  with  a 
face  meant  to  be  full  of  the  most  reassuring 
promises  of  devotion,  "  the  gracious  lady  may  be 
quite  certain  that  if  I  am  still  here  she  will  have 
on  her  most  beautiful  ball  dress  and  finest  linen, 
and  that  the  whole  neighbourhood  shall  see  for 
themselves  how  well  Herrschaften  know  what  is 
due  to  them." 

"  I  shall  give  directions,"  I  repeated  with  in- 
creased energy,  "  that  there  is  only  to  be  a  shroud." 

"  Oh  no,  no,"  she  protested,  smiling  as  though 
she  were  humouring  a  spoilt  and  eccentric  child, 
"  such  a  thing  could  never  be  permitted.  What 
would  our  feelings  be  when  we  remembered  that 
the  gracious  lady  had  not  received  her  dues,  and 
what  would  the  neighbours  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  have  nothing  but  a  shroud  ! "  I  cried  in 
great  wrath  —  and  then  stopped  short,  and  burst 
out  laughing.  "  What  an  absurd  and  gruesome 
conversation,"    I    said,    holding    out    my    hand. 


126  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  Good-bye,  Frau  Inspector,  I  am  sure  you  are 
wanted  in  that  cottage." 

She  made  me  a  curtsey  and  turned  back.  I 
walked  out  of  the  village  and  through  the  fir 
wood  and  the  meadow  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
opened  the  gate  into  my  garden,  went  down  the 
most  sheltered  path,  flung  myself  on  the  grass 
in  a  quiet  nook,  and  said  aloud  "  Ugh  !  " 

It  is  a  well-known  exclamation  of  disgust,  and 
is  thus  inadequately  expressed  in  writing. 


August 


AUGUST 


August  c^th.  —  August  has  come,  and  has  clothed 
the  hills  with  golden  lupins,  and  filled  the  grassy 
banks  with  harebells.  The  yellow  fields  of  lupins 
are  so  gorgeous  on  cloudless  days  that  I  have 
neglected  the  fiDrests  lately  and  drive  in  the  open, 
so  that  I  may  revel  in  their  scent  while  feasting 
my  eyes  on  their  beauty.  The  slope  of  a  hill 
clothed  with  this  orange  wonder  and  seen  against 
the  sky  is  one  of  those  sights  which  make  me  so 
happy  that  it  verges  on  pain.  The  straight,  vig- 
orous flower-spikes  are  something  like  hyacinths, 
but  all  aglow  with  a  divine  intensity  of  brightness 
that  a  yellow  hyacinth  never  yet  possessed  and 
never  will ;  and  then  they  are  not  waxy,  but 
velvety,  and  their  leaves  are  not  futile  drooping 
things,  but  delicate,  strong  sprays  of  an  exquisite 


129 


I30  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

grey-green,  with  a  bloom  on  them  that  throws  a 
mist  over  the  whole  field  ;  and  as  for  the  perfume, 
it  surely  is  the  perfume  of  Paradise.  The  plant 
is  altogether  lovely  —  shape,  growth,  flower,  and 
leaf,  and  the  horses  have  to  wait  very  patiently 
once  we  get  among  them,  for  I  can  never  have 
enough  of  sitting  quite  still  in  those  fair  fields  of 
glory.  Not  far  from  here  there  is  a  low  series  of 
hills  running  north  and  south,  absolutely  without 
trees,  and  at  the  foot  of  them,  on  the  east  side,  is 
a  sort  of  road,  chiefly  stones,  but  yet  with  patience 
to  be  driven  over,  and  on  the  other  side  of  this 
road  a  plain  stretches  away  towards  the  east  and 
south ;  and  hills  and  plain  are  now  one  sheet  of 
gold.  I  have  driven  there  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
—  I  cannot  keep  away  —  and  I  have  seen  them 
early  in  the  morning,  and  at  mid-day,  and  in  the 
afternoon,  and  I  have  seen  them  in  the  evening 
by  moonlight,  when  all  the  intensity  was  washed 
out  of  the  colour  and  into  the  scent ;  but  just  as 
the  sun  drops  behind  the  Httle  hills  is  the  supreme 
moment,  when  the  splendour  is  so  dazzling  that 
you  feel  as  though  you  must  have  reached  the 
very  gates  of  heaven.  So  strong  was  this  feeling 
the  other  day  that  I  actually  got  out  of  the 
carriage,  being  impulsive,  and   began  almost  in- 


AUGUST  131 

voluntarily  to  climb  the  hill,  half  expecting  to  see 
the  glories  of  the  New  Jerusalem  all  spread  out 
before  me  when  I  should  reach  the  top ;  and  it 
came  with  quite  a  shock  of  disappointment  to  find 
there  was  nothing  there  but  the  prose  of  potato- 
fields,  and  a  sandy  road  with  home-going  calves 
kicking  up  its  dust,  and  in  the  distance  our 
neighbour's  Scbloss,  and  the  New  Jerusalem  just 
as  far  off  as  ever. 

It  is  a  relief  to  me  to  write  about  these  things 
that  I  so  much  love,  for  I  do  not  talk  of  them  lest 
I  should  be  regarded  as  a  person  who  rhapsodizes, 
and  there  is  no  nuisance  more  intolerable  than 
having  somebody's  rhapsodies  thrust  upon  you 
when  you  have  no  enthusiasm  of  your  own  that  at 
all  corresponds.  I  know  this  so  well  that  I  gener- 
ally succeed  in  keeping  quiet ;  but  sometimes  even 
now,  after  years  of  study  in  the  art  of  holding  my 
tongue,  some  stray  fragment  of  what  I  feel  does 
occasionally  come  out,  and  then  I  am  at  once  pulled 
up  and  brought  to  my  senses  by  the  well-known 
cold  stare  of  utter  incomprehension,  or  the  look  of 
indulgent  superiority  that  awaits  any  exposure  of 
a  feeling  not  in  the  least  understood.  How  is  it 
that  you  should  feel  so  vastly  superior  whenever 
you  do  not  happen  to  enter  into  or  understand 


132  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

your  neighbour's  thoughts  when,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  your  not  behig  able  to  do  so  is  less  a  sign  of 
folly  in  your  neighbour  than  of  incompleteness  in 
yourself?  I  am  quite  sure  that  if  I  were  to  take 
most  or  any  of  my  friends  to  those  pleasant  yellow 
fields  they  would  notice  nothing  except  the  ex- 
ceeding joltiness  of  the  road;  and  if  I  were  so  ill- 
advised  as  to  lift  up  a  corner  of  my  heart,  and  let 
them  see  how  full  it  was  of  wonder  and  delight, 
they  would  first  look  blank,  and  then  decide 
mentally  that  they  were  in  the  unpleasant  situation 
of  driving  over  a  stony  road  with  that  worst  form 
of  idiot,  a  bore,  and  so  fall  into  the  mood  of  self- 
commiseration  which  is  such  a  solace  to  us  in  our 
troubles.  Yet  it  is  painful  being  suppressed  for 
ever  and  ever,  and  I  believe  the  torments  of  such 
a  state,  when  unduly  prolonged,  are  more  keenly 
felt  by  a  woman  than  a  man,  she  having,  in  spite 
of  her  protestations,  a  good  deal  of  the  ivy  nature 
still  left  in  her,  and  an  unhealthy  craving  for 
sympathy  and  support.  When  I  drive  to  the 
lupins  and  see  them  all  spread  out  as  far  as  eye 
can  reach  in  perfect  beauty  of  colour  and  scent 
and  bathed  in  the  mild  August  sunshine,  I  feel  I 
must  send  for  somebody  to  come  and  look  at  them 
with  me,  and  talk  about  them  to  me,  and  share  in 


AUGUST 


133 


the  pleasure  ;  and  when  I  run  over  the  list  of  my 
friends  and  try  to  find  one  who  would  enjoy  them, 
1  am  frightened  once  more  at  the  solitariness  in 
which  we  each  of  us  live.  I  have,  it  is  true,  a 
.  great  many  friends  —  people  with  whom  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  spend  an  afternoon  if  such  afternoons  are 
not  repeated  often,  and  if  you  are  careful  not  to 
stir  more  than  the  surface  of  things,  but  among 
them  all  there  is  only  one  who  has,  roughly,  the 
same  tastes  that  I  have  ;  and  even  her  sympathies 
have  limitations,  and  she  declares  for  instance  with 
emphasis  that  she  would  not  at  all  like  to  be  a 
goose-girl.  I  wonder  why.  Our  friendship  nearlv 
came  to  an  end  over  the  goose-girl,  so  unexpectedly 
inflaming  did  the  subject  turn  out  to  be.  Of  all 
professions,  if  I  had  liberty  of  choice,  I  would 
choose  to  be  a  gardener,  and  if  nobody  would  have 
me  in  that  capacity  I  would  like  to  be  a  goose- 
girl,  and  sit  in  the  greenest  of  fields  minding  those 
delightfully  plump,  placid  geese,  whiter  and  more 
leisurely  than  the  clouds  on  a  calm  summer  morn- 
ing, their  very  waddle  in  its  lazy  deliberation  sooth- 
ing and  salutary  to  a  fretted  spirit  that  has  been 
too  long  on  the  stretch.  The  fields  geese  feed  in 
are  so  specially  charming,  so  green  and  low-lying, 
with  little  clumps  of  trees  and  bushes,  and  a  pond 


134  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

or  boggy  bit  of  ground  somewhere  near,  and  a 
profusion  of  those  dehcate  field  flowers  that  look 
so  lovely  growing  and  are  so  unsatisfactory  and 
fade  so  quickly  if  you  try  to  arrange  them  in  your 
rooms.  For  six  months  of  the  year  I  would  be 
happier  than  any  queen  I  ever  heard  of,  minding 
the  fat  white  things.  I  would  begin  in  April  with 
the  king-cups,  and  leave  off  in  September  with  the 
blackberries,  and  I  would  keep  one  eye  on  the 
geese,  and  one  on  the  volume  of  Wordsworth  I 
should  have  with  me,  and  I  would  be  present  in 
this  way  at  the  procession  of  the  months,  the  first 
three  all  white  and  yellow,  and  the  last  three 
gorgeous  with  the  lupin  fields  and  the  blues  and 
purples  and  crimsons  that  clothe  the  hedges  and 
ditches  in  a  wonderful  variety  of  shades,  and  dye 
the  grass  near  the  water  in  great  patches.  Then 
in  October  I  would  shut  up  my  Wordsworth,  go 
back  to  civilised  life,  and  probably  assist  at  the 
eating  of  the  geese  one  after  the  other,  with  a 
proper  thankfulness  for  the  amount  of  edification 
1  had  from  first  to  last  extracted  from  them. 

I  believe  in  England  goose  eating  is  held  to  be 
of  doubtful  refinement,  and  is  left  to  one's  ser- 
vants. Here  roast  goose  stuffed  with  apples  is  a 
dish  loved  quite  openly  and  simply  by  people  who 


AUGUST  135 

would  consider  that  the  number  of  theli  quarterings 
raises  them  above  any  suspicion  as  to  the  refine- 
ment of  their  tastes,  however  many  geese  they 
may  eat,  and  however  much  they  may  enjoy  them  ; 
and  I  rememberone  lady, whose  ancestors, probably 
all  having  loved  goose,  reached  back  up  to  a  quite 
giddy  antiquity,  casting  a  gloom  over  a  dinner 
table  by  removing  as  much  of  the  skin  or  crackling 
of  the  goose  as  she  could  when  it  came  to  her, 
remarking,  amidst  a  mournful  silence,  that  it  was 
her  favourite  part.  No  doubt  it  was.  The 
misfortune  was  that  it  happened  also  to  be  the 
favourite  part  of  the  line  of  guests  who  came  after 
her,  and  who  saw  themselves  forced  by  the  hard 
laws  of  propriety  to  affect  an  indifferent  dignity  of 
bearing  at  the  very  moment  when  their  one  feeling 
was  a  fierce  desire  to  rise  up  and  defend  at  all 
costs  their  right  to  a  share  of  skin.  She  had,  I 
remember,  very  pretty  little  white  hands  like  tiny 
claws,  and  wore  beautiful  rings,  and  sitting  opposite 
her,  and  free  myself  from  any  undue  passion  for 
goose,  I  had  leisure  to  watch  the  rapid  wav  in 
which  she  disposed  of  the  skin,  her  rings  and  the 
whiteness  of  her  hands  flashing  up  and  down  as 
she  used  her  knife  and  fork  with  the  awful  dexterity 
only  seen  in  perfection  in  the  Fatherland.     I  am 


136  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

afraid  that  as  a  nation  we  think  rather  more  of 
our  eating  and  drinking  than  is  reasonable,  and 
this  no  doubt  explains  why  so  many  of  us,  by  the 
time  we  are  thirty,  have  lost  the  original  classi- 
cality  of  our  contour.  Walking  in  the  streets  of 
a  town  you  are  almost  sure  to  catch  the  word  essen 
in  the  talk  of  the  passers-by  ;  and  das  Essen^ 
combined,  of  course,  with  the  drinking  made 
necessary  by  its  exaggerated  indulgence,  constitutes 
the  chief  happiness  of  the  middle  and  lower  classes. 
Any  story-book  or  novel  you  take  up  is  full  of 
feeling  descriptions  of  what  everybody  ate  and 
drank,  and  there  are  a  great  many  more  m.eals 
than  kisses  ;  so  that  the  novel-reader  who  expects 
a  love-tale,  finds  with  disgust  that  he  is  put  off 
with  menus.  The  upper  classes  have  so  many 
other  amusements  that  das  Essen  ceases  to  be  one, 
and  they  are  as  thin  as  all  the  rest  of  the  world ; 
but  if  the  curious  wish  to  see  how  very  largely  it 
fills  the  lives,  or  that  part  of  their  lives  that  they 
reserve  for  pleasure,  of  the  middle  classes,  it  is  a 
good  plan  to  go  to  seaside  places  during  the 
months  of  July  and  August,  when  the  schools  close, 
and  the  bourgeoisie  realises  the  dream  in  which  it 
has  been  indulging  the  whole  year,  of  hotel  life 
with  a  tremendous  dinner  every  day  at  one  o'clock. 


AUGUST  137 

The  April  baby  was  a  weak  little  creature 
in  her  first  years,  and  the  doctor  ordered  as 
specially  bracing  a  seaside  resort  frequented 
solely  by  the  middle  classes,  and  there  for  three 
.  succeeding  years  I  took  her  ;  and  while  she  rolled 
on  the  sands  and  grew  brown  and  lusty,  I  was 
dull,  and  fell  to  watching  the  other  tourists. 
Their  time,  it  appeared,  was  spent  in  ruminating 
over  the  delights  of  the  meal  that  was  eaten,  and 
in  preparing  their  bodies  by  gentlest  exercise  for 
the  delights  of  the  meal  that  was  to  come.  They 
passed  their  mornings  on  the  sands,  the  women 
doing  fancy  work  in  order  that  they  might  look 
busy,  and  the  men  strolling  aimlessly  about  near 
them  with  field-glasses,  and  nautical  caps,  and 
long  cloaks  of  a  very  dreadful  pattern  reaching  to 
their  heels  and  making  them  look  like  large 
women,  called  Havelocks,  —  all  of  them  waiting 
with  more  or  less  open  eagerness  for  one  o'clock, 
the  great  moment  to  which  they  had  been  looking 
forward  ever  since  the  day  before,  to  arrive. 
They  used  to  file  in  when  the  bell  rang  with  a 
sort  of  silent  solemnity,  a  contemplative  collected- 
ness,  which  is  best  described  by  the  word  recueille- 
ment,  and  ate  all  the  courses,  however  many  there 
were,  in  a  hot  room  full   of  flies   and  sunlight. 


138  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

The  dinner  lasted  a  good  hour  and  a  half,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time  they  would  begin  to  straggle 
out  again,  flushed  and  using  toothpicks  as  they 
strolled  to  the  tables  under  the  trees,  where  the 
exhausted  waiters  would  presently  bring  them 
breakfast-cups  of  coffee  and  cakes.  They  lingered 
about  an  hour  over  this,  and  then  gradually  dis- 
appeared to  their  rooms,  where  they  slept,  I 
suppose,  for  from  then  till  about  six  a  death-like 
stillness  reigned  in  the  place  and  April  and  I  had 
it  all  to  ourselves.  Towards  six,  slow  couples 
would  be  seen  crawling  along  the  path  by  the 
shore  and  panting  up  into  the  woods,  this  being 
the  only  exercise  of  the  day,  and  necessary  if  they 
would  eat  their  suppers  with  appreciation  ;  and 
April  and  I,  peering  through  the  bracken  out  of 
the  nests  of  moss  we  used  to  make  in  the  after- 
noons, could  see  them  coming  up  through  the 
trees  after  the  climb  up  the  cliff,  the  husband  with 
his  Havelock  over  his  arm,  a  little  in  front,  wiping 
his  face  and  gasping,  the  wife  in  her  tight  silk 
dress,  her  bonnet  strings  undone,  a  cloak  and 
an  umbrella,  and  very  often  a  small  mysterious 
basket  as  well  to  carry,  besides  holding  up  her 
dress,  verystout  and  very  uncomfortable  and  very 
breathless,  panting  along  behind ;    and  however 


AUGUST  139 

much  she  had  to  carry,  and  however  fat  and 
helpless  she  was,  and  however  steep  the  hill,  and 
however  much  dinner  she  had  eaten,  the  idea  that 
her  husband  might  have  taken  her  cloak  and  her 
.  umbrella  and  her  basket  and  carried  them  for  her 
would  never  have  struck  either  of  them.  If  it 
had  by  some  strange  chance  entered  his  head,  he 
would  have  reasoned  that  he  was  as  stout  as  she 
was,  that  he  had  eaten  as  much  dinner,  that  he 
was  several  years  older,  and  that  it  was  her  cloak. 
Logic  is  so  irresistible. 

To  go  on  eating  long  after  you  have  ceased  to 
be  hungry  has  fascinations,  apparently,  that  are 
difficult  to  withstand,  and  if  it  gives  you  so  much 
pleasure  that  the  resulting  inability  to  move  without 
gasping  is  accepted  with  the  meekness  of  martyrs, 
who  shall  say  that  you  are  wrong  ?  My  not 
myself  liking  a  large  dinner  at  one  o'clock  is  not 
a  reason  for  my  thinking  I  am  superior  to  those 
who  do.  Their  excesses,  it  is  true,  are  not  my 
excesses,  but  then  neither  are  mine  theirs ;  and 
what  about  the  days  of  idleness  I  spend,  doing 
nothing  from  early  till  late  but  lie  on  the  grass 
watching  clouds  ?  If  I  were  to  murmur  gluttons, 
could  not  they,  from  their  point  of  view,  retort 
with  conviction  fool  ?     All  those  maxims  about 


140  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

judging  others  by  yourself,  and  putting  yourself 
in  another  person's  place,  are  not,  I  am  afraid, 
reliable.  I  had  them  dinned  into  me  constantly 
as  a  child,  and  I  was  constantly  trying  to  obey 
them,  and  constantly  was  astonished  at  the  un- 
expected results  I  arrived  at ;  and  now  I  know 
that  it  is  a  proof  of  artlessness  to  suppose  that 
other  people  will  think  and  feel  and  hope  and 
enjoy  what  you  do  and  in  the  same  way  that  you 
do.  If  an  officious  friend  had  stood'  in  that 
breathless  couple's  path  and  told  them  in  glowing 
terms  how  much  happier  they  would  be  if  they 
lived  their  life  a  little  more  fully  and  from  its 
other  sides,  how  much  more  delightful  to  stride 
along  gaily  together  in  their  walks,  with  wind 
enough  for  talk  and  laughter,  how  pleasant  if  the 
man  were  muscular  and  in  good  condition  and 
the  woman  brisk  and  wiry,  and  that  they  only  had 
to  do  as  he  did  and  live  on  cold  meat  and  toast, 
and  drink  nothing,  to  be  as  blithe  as  birds,  do 
you  think  they  would  have  so  much  as  understood 
him  ?  Cold  meat  and  toast  ?  Instead  of  what 
they  had  just  been  enjoying  so  intensely?  Miss 
that  soup  made  of  the  inner  mysteries  of  geese, 
those  eels  stewed  in  beer,  the  roast  pig  with  red 
cabbage,  the  venison  basted  with  sour  cream  and 


AUGUST  141 

served  with  beans  in  vinegar  and  cranberry  jam, 
the  piled-up  masses  of  vanilla  ice,  the  pumper- 
nickel and  cheese,  the  apples  and  pears  on  the 
top  of  that,  and  the  big  cups  of  coffee  and  cakes 
on  the  top  of  the  apples  and  pears  ?  Really  a 
quick  walk  over  the  heather  with  a  wiry  wife 
would  hardly  make  up  for  the  loss  of  such  a 
dinner ;  and  besides,  might  not  a  wiry  wife  turn 
out  to  be  a  questionable  blessing  ?  And  so  they 
would  pity  the  nimble  friend  who  wasted  his  life 
in  taking  exercise  and  missed  all  its  pleasures,  and 
the  man  of  toast  and  early  rising  would  regard 
them  with  profound  disgust  if  simple  enough  to 
think  himself  better  than  they,  and,  if  he  possessed 
an  open  mind,  would  merely  return  their  pity  with 
more  of  his  own  ;  so  that,  I  suppose,  everybody 
would  be  pleased,  for  the  charm  of  pitying  one's 
neighbour,  though  subtle,  is  undeniable. 

I  remember  when  I  was  at  the  age  when  people 
began  to  call  me  Backfisch^  and  my  mother  dressed 
me  in  a  little  scarlet  coat  with  big  pearl  buttons, 
and  my  eyes  turned  down  because  I  was  shy,  and 
my  nose  turned  up  because  I  was  impudent,  one 
summer  at  the  seaside  with  my  governess  we 
noticed  in  our  walks  a  solitary  lady  of  dignified 
appearance,  who  spoke  to  no  one,  and    seemed 


142  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

for  ever  wrapped  in  distant  and  lofty  philosophic 
speculations.  "  She's  thinking  about  Kant  and 
the  nebular  hypothesis,"  I  decided  to  myself, 
having  once  heard  some  men  with  long  beards 
talking  of  both  those  things,  and  they  all  had  had 
that  same  far-away  look  in  their  eyes.  "  ^' est-ce 
que  c  est  une  hypo  these  nebuleuse.  Mademoiselle  ?  " 
I   said  aloud. 

"  T'enez-vous  bien,  et  marchez  d'une  fa^on  con- 
venahle^'  she  replied  sharply. 

"  ^  est-ce  que  c  est  une  hypothese " 

"  Vous  etes  trop  jeune  pour  comprendre  ces 
chases'' 

"  Oh  alors  vous  ne  savez  pas  vous-meme .'  "  I 
cried  triumphantly,  "  Sans  cela  vous  me  diriez.'' 

"  Elisabeth,  vous  ecrirez,  des  que  nous  rentrons, 
leverbe  Prier  le  bon  Dieu  de  m' Aider  a  ne  plus 
Etre  si  ImpertinenteT 

She  was  an  ingenious  young  woman,  and  the 
verbs  I  had  to  write  as  punishments  were  of  the 
most  elaborate  and  complicated  nature  —  Demander 
pardon  pour  Avoir  Siffle  comme  un  Gamin  quel- 
conque,  Vouloir  ne  plus  Oublier  de  Nettoyer  mes 
OngleSy  Essay er  de  ne  pas  tant  Aimer  les  Poudings, 
are  but  a  few  examples  of  her  achievements  in 
this  particular  branch  of  discipline. 


AUGUST  143 

That  very  day  at  the  table  d^hote  the  abstracted 
lady  sat  next  to  me.  A  ragout  of  some  sort  was 
handed  round,  and  after  I  had  taken  some  she 
asked  me,  before  helping  herself,  what  it  was. 

"Snails,"  I  replied  promptly, whollyunchastened 
by  the  prayers  I  had  just  been  writing  out  in 
every  tense. 

"  Snails  !  Ekelig."  And  she  waved  the  waiter 
loftily  away,  and  looked  on  with  much  superciH- 
ousness  at  the  rest  of  us  enjoying  ourselves. 

"  What !  You  do  not  eat  this  excellent  ragout?  " 
asked  her  other  neighbour,  a  hot  man,  as  he 
^nished  clearing  his  plate  and  had  time  to  observe 
the  emptiness  of  hers.  "  You  do  not  like  calves' 
tongues  and  mushrooms  ?     Sonderbar." 

I  still  can  see  the  poor  lady's  face  as  she 
turned  on  me  more  like  a  tigress  than  the  im- 
passive person  she  had  been  a  moment  before. 
^^ Sie  unverschdmter  Backfisch T^  she  hissed.  "My 
favourite  dish  —  I  have  you  to  thank  for  spoiling 
my  repast  —  my  day  !  "  And  in  a  frenzy  of  rage 
she  gripped  my  arm  as  though  she  would  have 
shaken  me  then  and  there  in  the  face  of  the 
multitude,  while  I  sat  appalled  at  the  consequences 
of  indulging  a  playful  fancy  at  the  wrong  time. 

Which  story,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  illus- 


144  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

trates  less  the  tremendous  importance  of  food  in 
our  country  than  the  exceeding  odiousness  of 
Backfisch  in  scarlet  coats. 


August  1 6th.  —  My  idea  of  a  garden  is  that  it 
should  be  beautiful  from  end  to  end,  and  not  start 
off  in  front  of  the  house  with  fireworks,  going  off 
at  its  farthest  limit  into  sheer  sticks.  The  standard 
reached  beneath  the  windows  should  at  least  be 
kept  up,  if  it  cannot  be  surpassed,  right  away 
through,  and  the  German  popular  plan  in  this 
matter  quite  discarded  of  concentrating  all  the 
available  splendour  of  the  establishment  into  the 
supreme  effort  of  carpet-bedding  and  glass  balls  on 
pedestals  in  front  of  the  house,  in  the  hope  that 
the  stranger,  carefully  kept  in  that  part,  and  on  no 
account  allowed  to  wander,  will  infer  an  equal  mag- 
nificence throughout  the  entire  domain ;  whereas 
he  knows  very  well  all  the  time  that  the  landscape 
round  the  corner  consists  of  fowls  and  dust-bins. 
Disliking  this  method,  I  have  tried  to  make  my 
garden  increase  in  loveliness,  if  not  in  tidiness,  the 
farther  you  get  into  it ;  and  the  visitor  who  thinks 
in  his  innocence  as  he  emerges  from  the  shade  of 
the  verandah  that  he  sees  the  best  before  him,  is 


AUGUST  145 

artfully  conducted  from  beauty  to  beauty  till  he 
beholds  what  I  think  is  the  most  charming  bit,  the 
silver  birch  and  azalea  plantation  down  at  the  very 
end.  This  is  the  boundary  of  my  kingdom  on  the 
south  side,  a  blaze  of  colour  in  May  and  June, 
across  which  you  see  the  placid  meadows  stretching 
away  to  a  distant  wood ;  and  from  its  contemplation 
the  ideal  visitor  returns  to  the  house  a  refreshed 
and  better  man.  That  is  the  sort  of  person  one 
enjoys  taking  round  —  the  man  (or  woman)  who, 
loving  gardens,  would  go  any  distance  to  see  one; 
who  comes  to  appreciate,  and  compare,  and  admire ; 
who  has  a  garden  of  his  own  that  he  lives  in  and 
loves  ;  and  whose  talk  and  criticisms  are  as  dew  to 
the  thirsty  gardening  soul,  all  too  accustomed  in 
this  respect  to  droughts.  He  knows  as  well  as  I 
do  what  work,  what  patience,  what  study  and 
watching,  what  laughter  at  failures,  what  fresh 
starts  with  undiminished  zeal,  and  what  bright, 
unalterable  faith  are  represented  by  the  flowers  in 
my  garden.  He  knows  what  I  have  done  for  it, 
and  he  knows  what  it  has  done  for  me,  and  how  it 
has  been  and  will  be  more  and  more  a  place  of 
joys,  a  place  of  lessons,  a  place  of  health,  a  place  of 
miracles,  and  a  place  of  sure  and  never-changing 
peace. 


146  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

Living  face  to  face  with  nature  makes  it  diffi- 
cult for  one  to  be  discouraged.  Moles  and 
late  frosts,  both  of  which  are  here  in  abundance, 
have  often  grieved  and  disappointed  me,  but  even 
these,  my  worst  enemies,  have  not  succeeded  in 
making  me  feel  discouraged.  Not  once  till  now 
have  I  got  farther  in  that  direction  than  the  purely- 
negative  state  of  not  being  encouraged ;  and  when- 
ever I  reach  that  state  I  go  for  a  brisk  walk  in  the 
sunshine  and  come  back  cured.  It  makes  one  so 
healthy  to  live  in  a  garden,  so  healthy  in  mind  as 
well  as  body,  and  when  I  say  moles  and  late  frosts 
are  my  worst  enemies,  it  only  shows  how  I  could 
not  now  if  I  tried  sit  down  and  brood  over  my 
own  or  my  neighbour's  sins,  and  how  the  breezes 
in  my  garden  have  blown  away  all  those  worries 
and  vexations  and  bitternesses  that  are  the  lot  of 
those  who  live  in  a  crowd.  The  most  severe  frost 
that  ever  nipped  the  hopes  of  a  year  is  better  to 
my  thinking  than  having  to  listen  to  one  malignant 
truth  or  lie,  and  I  would  rather  have  a  mole  busy 
burrowing  tunnels  under  each  of  my  rose  trees  and 
letting  the  air  get  at  their  roots  than  face  a  single 
greeting  where  no  kindness  is.  How  can  you  help 
being  happy  if  you  are  healthy  and  in  the  place  you 
want  to  be  ?     A  man  once  made  it  a  reproach  that 


AUGUST  147 

I  should  be  so  happy,  and  told  me  everybody  has 
crosses,  and  that  we  live  in  a  vale  of  woe.  I 
mentioned  moles  as  my  principal  cross,  and  pointed 
to  the  huge  black  mounds  with  which  they  had 
.  decorated  the  tennis-court,  but  I  could  not  agree 
to  the  vale  of  woe,  and  could  not  be  shaken  in  my 
belief  that  the  world  is  a  dear  and  lovely  place, 
with  everything  in  it  to  make  us  happy  so  long  as 
we  walk  humbly  and  diet  ourselves.  He  pointed 
out  that  sorrow  and  sickness  were  sure  to  come, 
and  seemed  quite  angry  with  me  when  I  suggested 
that  they  too  could  be  borne  perhaps  with  cheer- 
*ialness.  "And  have  not  even  such  things  their 
sunny  side  ?  "  I  exclaimed.  "  When  I  am  steeped 
to  the  lips  in  diseases  and  doctors,  I  shall  at  least 
have  something  to  talk  about  that  interests  my 
women  friends,  and  need  not  sit  as  I  do  now 
wondering  what  I  shall  say  next  and  wishing  they 
would  go."  He  replied  that  all  around  me  lay 
miserv,  sin,  and  suffering,  and  that  every  person 
not  absolutely  blinded  by  selfishness  must  be  aware 
of  it  and  must  realise  the  seriousness  and  tragedy 
of  existence.  I  asked  him  whether  my  being  miser- 
able and  discontented  would  help  any  one  or  make 
him  less  wretched ;  and  he  said  that  we  all  had  to 
take  up  our  burdens.     I  assured  him  I  would  not 


148  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

shrink  from  mine,  though  I  felt  secretly  ashamed 
of  it  when  I  remembered  that  it  was  only  moles, 
and  he  went  away  with  a  grave  face  and  a  shaking 
head,  back  to  his  wife  and  his  eleven  children.  I 
heard  soon  afterwards  that  a  twelfth  baby  had  been 
born  and  his  wife  had  died,  and  in  dying  had  turned 
her  face  with  a  quite  unaccountable  impatience  away 
from  him  and  to  the  wall ;  and  the  rumour  of  his 
piety  reached  even  into  my  garden,  and  how  he 
had  said,  as  he  closed  her  eyes,  "  It  is  the  Will  of 
God."     He  was  a  missionary. 

But  of  what  use  is  it  telling  a  woman  with  a 
garden  that  she  ought  really  to  be  ashamed  of  her- 
self for  being  happy  ?  The  fresh  air  is  so  buoyant 
that  it  lifts  all  remarks  of  that  sort  away  off  you 
and  leaves  you  laughing.  They  get  wafted  away 
on  the  scent  of  the  stocks,  and  you  stand  in  the 
sun  looking  round  at  your  cheerful  flowers,  and 
more  than  ever  persuaded  that  it  is  a  good  and 
blessed  thing  to  be  thankful.  Oh  a  garden  is  a 
sweet,  sane  refuge  to  have  !  Whether  I  am  tired 
because  I  have  enjoyed  myself  too  much,  or  tired 
because  I  have  lectured  the  servants  too  much,  or 
tired  because  I  have  talked  to  missionaries  too 
much,  I  have  only  to  come  down  the  verandah 
steps  into  the  garden  to  be  at  once  restored  to 


AUGUST  149 

quiet,  and  serenity,  and  my  real  and  natural  self. 
I  could  almost  fancy  sometimes  that  as  I  come 
down  the  steps,  gentle  hands  of  blessing  have 
been  laid  on  my  head.  I  suppose  I  feel  so  because 
of  the  hush  that  descends  on  my  soul  when  I  get 
out  of  the  close,  restless  house  into  that  silent  purity. 
Sometimes  I  sit  for  hours  in  the  south  walk, 
by  the  verandah  just  listening  and  watching.  It 
is  so  private  there,  though  directly  beneath  the 
windows,  that  it  is  one  of  my  favourite  places. 
There  are  no  bedrooms  on  that  side  of  the  house, 
only  the  Man  of  Wrath's  and  my  day-rooms,  so 
that  servants  cannot  see  me  as  I  stand  there 
enjoying  myself  If  they  did  or  could,  I  should 
simply  never  go  there,  for  nothing  is  so  utterly 
destructive  to  meditation  as  to  know  that  probably 
somebody  inquisitive  is  eyeing  you  from  behind  a 
curtain.  The  loveliest  garden  I  know  is  spoilt  to 
my  thinking  by  the  impossibility  of  getting  out 
of  sight  of  the  house,  which  stares  down  at  you, 
Argus-eyed  and  unblinking,  into  whatever  corner 
you  may  shuffle.  Perfect  house  and  perfect  garden, 
lying  in  that  land  of  lovely  gardens,  England,  the 
garden  just  the  right  size  for  perfection,  not  a 
weed  ever  admitted,  every  dandelion  and  daisy  — 
those  friends  of  the  unaspiring  —  routed  out  years 


150  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

ago,  the  borders  exquisite  examples  of  taste,  the 
turf  so  faultless  that  you  hardly  like  to  walk  on 
it  for  fear  of  making  it  dusty,  and  the  whole  quite 
uninhabitable  for  people  of  my  solitary  tendencies 
because,  go  where  you  will,  you  are  overlooked. 
Since  I  have  lived  in  this  big  straggling  place,  full 
of  paths  and  copses  where  I  am  sure  of  being  left 
alone,  with  wide  fields  and  heath  and  forests 
beyond,  and  so  much  room  to  move  and  breathe 
in,  I  feel  choked,  oppressed,  suffocated,  in  anything 
small  and  perfect.  I  spent  a  very  happy  afternoon 
in  that  little  EngHsh  paradise,  but  I  came  av/ay 
quite  joyfully,  and  with  many  a  loving  thought  of 
my  own  dear  ragged  garden,  and  all  the  corners 
in  it  where  the  anemones  twinkle  in  the  spring 
like  stars,  and  where  there  is  so  much  nature  and 
so  little  art.  It  will  grow  I  know  sweeter  every 
year,  but  it  is  too  big  ever  to  be  perfect  and  to  get 
to  look  so  immaculate  that  the  diseased  imagination 
conjures  up  visions  of  housemaids  issuing  forth 
each  morning  in  troops  and  dusting  every  separate 
flower  with  feather  brushes.  Nature  herself  is 
untidy,  and  in  a  garden  she  ought  to  come  first, 
and  Art  with  her  brooms  and  clipping-shears 
follow  humbly  behind.  Art  has  such  a  good  time 
in  the  house,  where  she  spreads  herself  over  the 


AUGUST  151 

walls,  and   hangs   herself  up   gorgeously   at  the 
windows,   and    lurks    in    the   sofa   cushions,  and 
breaks  out  in  an  eruption  of  pots  wherever  pots 
are  possible,  that  really  she  should  be  content  to 
take  the  second  place  out  of  doors.     And  how 
dreadful  to  meet  a  gardener  and  a  wheelbarrow  at 
every  turn  —  which  is  precisely  what  happens  to 
one  in  the  perfect  garden.     My  gardener,  whose 
deafness  is  more   than   compensated   for   by  the 
keenness  of  his  eyesight,  very  soon  remarked  the 
scowl  that  distorted  my  features  whenever  I   met 
one  of  his  assistants  in  my  favourite  walks,  and  I 
never  meet  them  now.      I   think  he  must   keep 
them    chained    up    to    the    cucumber-frames,    so 
completely  have  they  disappeared,  and  he  only 
lets  them  loose  when  he  knows  I  am  driving,  or 
at  meals,  or  in  bed.      But  is  it  not  irritating  to  be 
sitting  under  your  favourite  tree,  pencil  in  hand, 
and  eyes  turned  skywards  expectant  of  the  spark 
from  heaven  that  never  falls,  and  then  to  have  a 
man  appear  suddenly  round  the  corner  who  im- 
mediately begins  quite  close  to  you  to  tear  up  the 
earth  with  his  fangs  ?     No  one  will  ever  know 
the    number    of  what   I    believe   are   technically 
known    as    winged    words    that    I    have    missed 
bringing  down  through  interruptions  of  this  kind. 


152  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

Indeed,  as  I  look,  through  these  pages  I  see  I  must 
have  missed  them  all,  for  I  can  find  nothing 
anywhere  with  even  a  rudimentary  approach  to 
wings. 

Sometimes  when  I  am  in  a  critical  mood  and 
need  all  my  faith  to  keep  me  patient,  I  shake  my 
head  at  the  unshornness  of  the  garden  as  gravely 
as  the  missionary  shook  his  head  at  me.  The 
bushes  stretch  across  the  paths,  and,  catching  at 
me  as  I  go  by,  remind  me  that  they  have  not  been 
pruned;  the  teeming  plant  life  rejoices  on  the 
lawns  free  from  all  interference  from  men  and 
hoes  ;  the  pinks  are  closely  nibbled  off  at  the 
beginning  of  each  summer  by  selfish  hares  intent 
on  their  own  gratification  ;  most  of  the  beds  bear 
the  marks  of  nocturnal  foxes ;  and  the  squirrels 
spend  their  days  wantonly  biting  off  and  fling- 
ing down  the  tender  young  shoots  of  the  firs. 
Then  there  is  the  boy  who  drives  the  donkey 
and  water-cart  round  the  garden,  and  who  has  an 
altogether  reprehensible  habit  of  whisking  round 
corners  and  slicing  off  bits  of  the  lawn  as  he 
whisks.  "  But  you  can't  alter  these  things,  my 
good  soul,"  I  say  to  myself  "  If  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  the  hares  and  foxes,  you  must  consent  to 
have  wire-netting,  which  is  odious,  right  round 


AUGUST  153 

your  garden.  And  you  are  always  saying  you 
like  weeds,  so  why  grumble  at  your  lawns?  And 
it  doesn't  hurt  you  much  if  the  squirrels  do  break 
bits  off"  your  firs  —  the  firs  must  have  had  that 
happening  to  them  years  and  years  before  you 
were  born,  yet  they  still  flourish.  As  for  boys, 
they  certainly  are  revolting  creatures.  Can't  you 
catch  this  one  when  he  isn't  looking  and  pop  him 
in  his  own  water-barrel  and  put  the  lid  on  ?  " 

I  asked  the  June  baby,  who  had  several  times 
noticed  with  indignation  the  culpable  indifference 
of  this  boy  in  regard  to  corners,  whether  she  did  not 
think  that  would  be  a  good  way  of  disposing  of 
him.  She  is  a  great  disciplinarian,  and  was  loud 
in  her  praise  of  the  plan  ;  but  the  other  two 
demurred.  "He  might  go  dead  in  there,"  said 
the  May  baby,  apprehensively.  "And  he  is  such 
a  naughty  boy,"  said  April,  who  had  watched  his 
reckless  conduct  with  special  disgust,  "  that  if  he 
once  went  dead  he'd  go  straight  to  the  Hoik  and 
stay  all  the  time  with  the  diable." 

That  was  the  first  French  word  I  have  heard 
them  say :  strange  and  sulphureous  first-fruits  of 
Seraphine's  teaching  ! 

We  were  going  round  the  garden  in  a  proces- 
sion, I  with  a  big  pair  of  scissors,  and  the  Three 


154  THE    SOLITARY    SUMMER 

with  baskets,  into  one  of  which  I  put  fresh  flowers, 
and  into  the  others  flowers  that  were  beginning 
to  seed,  dead  flowers,  and  seed-pods.  The  garden 
was  quivering  in  heat  and  light ;  rain  in  the 
morning  had  brought  out  ail  the  snails  and  all  the 
sweetness,  and  we  were  very  happy,  as  we  always 
are,  I  when  I  am  knee-deep  in  flowers,  and  the 
babies  when  they  can  find  new  sorts  of  snails  to 
add  to  their  collections.  These  collections  are 
carried  about  in  cardboard  boxes  all  day,  and  at 
night  each  baby  has  hers  on  the  chair  beside  her 
bed.  Sometimes  the  snails  get  out  and  crawl  over 
the  beds,  but  the  babies  do  not  mind.  Once  when 
April  woke  in  the  morning  she  was  overjoyed  by 
finding  a  friendly  little  one  on  her  cheek.  Clearly 
babies  of  iron  nerves  and  pellucid  consciences. 

"  So  you  do  know  some  French,"  I  said  as  I 
snipped  off  poppy-heads  ;  "  you  have  always  pre- 
tended you  don't." 

"  Oh,  keep  the  poppies,  mummy,"  cried  April, 
as  she  saw  them  tumbling  into  her  basket ;  "  if  you 
picks  them  and  just  leaves  them,  then  they  ripes 
and  is  good  for  such  a  many  things." 

"  Tell  me  about  the  diable^'  I  said,  "  and  you 
shall  keep  the  poppies." 

"  He  isn't  nice,  that  diable"  she  said,  starting 


AUGUST  155 

off  at  once  with  breathless  eloquence.  "  Seraphine 
says  there  was  one  time  a  girl  and  a  boy  who  went 
for  a  walk,  and  there  were  two  ways,  and  one  way 
goes  where  stones  is,  but  it  goes  to  the  lieber  Gott ; 
and  the  girl  went  that  way  till  she  came  to  a  door, 
and  the  lieber  Gott  made  the  door  opened  and  she 
went  in,  and  that's  the  Himmel" 

"And  the  boy?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  naughty  boy  and  went  the  other 
way  where  there  is  a  tree,  and  on  the  tree  is  written, 

*  Don't  go  this  way  or  you'll  be  dead,'  and  he  said, 

*  That  is  one  betise^  and  did  go  in  the  way  and  got 
to  the  Hoik,  and  there  he  gets  whippings  when  he 
doesn't  make  what  the  diable  says." 

"  That's  because  he  was  so  naughty,"  explained 
the  May  baby,  holding  up  an  impressive  finger, 
"  and  didn't  want  to  go  to  the  Himmel  and  didn't 
love  glory." 

"All  boys  are  naughty,"  said  June,  "and  I 
don't  love  them." 

^^  Nous  allons  parler  FrafK^ais,''  I  announced, 
desirous  of  finding  out  whether  their  whole  stock 
was  represented  by  diable  and  betise ;  "  I  believe 
you  can  all  speak  it  quite  well." 

There  was  no  answer.  I  snipped  off  sweet-pea 
pods  and  began  to  talk  French  at  a  great  rate, 


156  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

asking  questions  as  I  snipped,  and  trying  to  extract 
answers,  and  getting  none.  The  silence  behind 
me  grew  ominous.  Presently  I  heard  a  faint  sniff, 
and  the  basket  being  held  up  to  me  began  to  shake. 
I  bent  down  quickly  and  looked  under  April's 
sun-bonnet.  She  was  crying  great  dreadful  tears, 
and  rubbing  her  eyes  hard  with  her  one  free 
hand. 

"  Why,  you  most  blessed  of  babies,"  I  ex- 
claimed, kneeling  down  and  putting  my  arms 
round  her,  "  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ? " 

She  looked  at  me  with  grieved  and  doubting 
eyes.  "  Such  a  mother  to  talk  French  to  her 
child  !  "  she  sobbed. 

I  threw  down  the  scissors,  picked  her  up,  and 
carried  her  up  and  down  the  path,  comforting  her 
with  all  the  soft  words  I  knew  and  suppressing  my 
desire  to  smile.  "  That's  not  French,  is  it  ?  "  I 
whispered  at  the  end  of  a  long  string  of  endear- 
ments, beginning,  I  believe,  with  such  flights  of 
rhetoric  as  priceless  blessing  and  angel  baby,  and 
ending  with  a  great  many  kisses. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  patting  my  face  and 
looking  infinitely  relieved, "  that  is  pretty,  and  how 
mummies  always  talks.  Proper  mummies  never 
speak  French  —  only  Seraphines."    And  she  gave 


AUGUST  157 

me  a  very  tight  hug,  and  a  kiss  that  transferred 
all  her  tears  to  my  face ;  and  I  set  her  down 
and,  taking  out  my  handkerchief,  tried  to  wipe 
off  the  traces  of  my  attempt  at  governessing 
from  her  cheeks.  I  wonder  how  it  is  that 
whenever  babies  cry,  streaks  of  mud  immedi- 
ately appear  on  their  faces.  I  believe  I  could 
cry  for  a  week,  and  yet  produce  no  mud. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  babies,"  I  said, 
anxious  to  restore  complete  serenity  on  such  a 
lovely  day,  and  feeling  slightly  ashamed  of  my 
uncalled-for  zeal  —  indeed,  April  was  right,  and 
proper  mothers  leave  lessons  and  torments  to 
somebody  else,  and  devote  all  their  energies  to 
petting  —  "I'll  give  a  ball  after  tea." 

"Tt'j-/"  shouted  three  exultant  voices,  "and 
invite  all  the  babies  !  " 

"So  now  you  must  arrange  what  you  are  going 
to  wear.  I  suppose  you'd  like  the  same  supper 
as  usual  ?  Run  away  to  Seraphine  and  tell  her 
to  get  you  ready." 

They  seized  their  baskets  and  their  boxes  of 
snails  and  rushed  off  into  the  bushes,  calling  for 
Seraphine  with  nothing  but  rapture  in  their  voices, 
and  French  and  the  diable  quite  forgotten. 

These  balls  are  given  with  great  ceremony  two 


158  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

or  three  times  a  year.  They  last  about  an  hour, 
during  which  I  sit  at  the  piano  in  the  library 
playing  cheerful  tunes,  and  the  babies  dance 
passionately  round  the  pillar.  They  refuse  to 
waltz  together,  which  is  perhaps  a  good  thing, 
for  if  they  did  there  would  always  be  one  left 
over  to  be  a  wallflower  and  gnash  her  teeth ;  and 
when  they  want  to  dance  squares  they  are  forced 
by  the  stubbornness  of  numbers  to  dance  trian- 
gles. At  the  appointed  hour  they  knock  at  the 
door,  and  come  in  attired  in  the  garments  they 
have  selected  as  appropriate  (at  this  last  ball  the 
April  baby  wore  my  shooting  coat,  the  May  baby 
had  a  muff,  and  the  June  baby  carried  Seraphine's 
umbrella),  and,  curtseying  to  me,  each  one  makes 
some  remark  she  thinks  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

"  How's  your  husband  ?  "  June  asked  me  last 
time,  in  the  defiant  tones  she  seems  to  think 
proper  at  a  ball. 

"  Very  well,  thank  you." 

"  Oh,  that  is  nice." 

"  Mine  isn't  vely  well,"  remarked  April,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  Indeed  ? " 

"  No,  he  has  got  some  tummy-aches." 

"  Dear  me  !  " 


AUGUST  159 

"  He  was  coming  else,  and  had  such  fine 
twowsers  to  wear  —  pink  ones  with  wibbons." 

After  a  little  more  graceful  conversation  of  this 
kind  the  ball  begins,  and  at  the  end  of  an 
.  hour's  dancing,  supper,  consisting  of  radishes  and 
lemonade,  is  served  on  footstools  ;  and  when  they 
have  cleared  it  up  even  to  the  leaves  and  stalks  of 
the  radishes,  they  rise  with  much  dignitv,  express 
in  proper  terms  their  sense  of  gratitude  for  the 
entertainment,  curtsey,  and  depart  to  bed,  where 
they  spend  a  night  of  horror,  the  prey  of  the 
awful  dreams  naturally  resulting  from  so  unusual 
a  combination  as  radishes  and  babies.  That  is 
why  my  balls  are  rare  festivals  —  the  babies  will 
insist  on  having  radishes  for  the  supper,  and  I, 
as  a  decent  parent  with  a  proper  sense  of  my 
responsibilities,  am  forced  accordingly  to  restrict 
my  invitations  to  two,  at  the  most  three,  in  a  year. 

When  this  last  one  was  over  I  felt  considerablv 
exhausted,  and  had  hardly  sufficient  strength  to 
receive  their  thanks  with  civility.  An  hour's  jig- 
playing  with  the  thermometer  at  90  leaves  its  marks 
on  the  most  robust ;  and  when  they  were  in  bed, 
and  the  supper  beginning  to  do  its  work,  I  ordered 
the  carriage  and  the  kettle  with  a  view  to  seeking 
repose  in  the  forest,  taking  the  opportunity  of 


i6o  THE   SOLITARY   SUiMMER 

escaping  before  the  Man  of  Wrath  should  come 
in  to  dinner.  The  weather  has  been  very  hot  for 
a  long  time,  but  the  rain  in  the  morning  had  had 
a  wonderful  effect  on  my  flowers,  and  as  I  drove 
away  I  could  not  help  noticing  how  charming  the 
borders  in  front  of  the  house  were  looking,  with 
their  white  hollyhocks,  and  white  snapdragons,  and 
fringe  of  feathery  marigolds.  This  gardener  has 
already  changed  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place,  and 
I  believe  I  have  found  the  right  man  at  last.  He 
is  very  young  for  a  head  gardener,  but  on  that 
account  all  the  more  anxious  to  please  me  and 
keep  his  situation  ;  and  it  is  a  great  comfort  to 
have  to  do  with  somebody  who  watches  and  ip 
terprets  rightly  every  expression  of  one's  face 
and  does  not  need  much  talking  to.  He  makes 
mistakes  sometimes  in  the  men  he  engages,  just 
as  I  used  to  when  I  did  the  engaging,  and  he  had 
one  poor  young  man  as  apprentice  who  very  soon, 
like  the  first  of  my  three  meek  gardeners,  went 
mad.  His  madness  was  of  a  harmless  nature  and 
took  a  literary  form  ;  indeed,  that  was  all  they 
had  against  him,  that  he  would  write  books.  He 
used  to  sit  in  the  early  morning  on  my  special 
seats  in  the  garden,  and  strictly  meditate  the  thank- 
less muse  when  he  ought  to  have  been  carting 


AUGUST  i6i 

manure  ;  and  he  made  his  fellow-apprentices  un- 
speakably wretched  by  shouting  extracts  from 
Schiller  at  them  across  the  intervening  gooseberry 
bushes.  Let  me  hasten  to  say  that  I  had  never 
spoken  to  him,  and  should  not  even  have  known 
what  he  was  like  if  he  had  not  worn  eyeglasses, 
so  that  the  Man  of  Wrath's  insinuation  that  I 
affect  the  sanity  of  my  gardeners  is  entirely 
without  justification.  The  eyeglasses  struck  me 
as  so  odd  on  a  gardener  that  I  asked  who  he  was, 
and  was  told  that  he  had  been  studying  for  the 
Bar,  but  could  not  pass  the  examinations,  and  had 
taken  up  gardening  in  the  hope  of  getting  back 
his  health  and  spirits.  I  thought  this  a  very 
sensible  plan,  and  was  beginning  to  feel  interested 
in  him  when  one  day  the  post  brought  me  a 
registered  packet  containing  a  manuscript  play  he 
had  written  called  "The  Lawyer  as  Gardener," 
dedicated  to  me.  The  Man  of  Wrath  and  I  were 
both  in  it,  the  Man  of  Wrath,  however,  only  in  the 
list  of  characters,  so  that  he  should  not  feel  hurt, 
I  suppose,  for  he  never  appeared  on  the  scenes  at 
all.  As  for  me,  I  was  represented  as  going  about 
quoting  Tolstoi  in  season  and  out  of  season  to  the 
gardeners  —  a  thing  I  protest  I  never  did.  The 
young  man  was  sent  home  to  his  people,  and  I 


i62  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

have  been  asking  myself  ever  since  what  there  is 
about  this  place  that  it  should  so  persistently 
produce  books  and  lunacy  ? 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest,  where  shafts  of 
dusty  sunlight  slanted  through  the  trees,  children 
were  picking  wortleberries  for  market  as  I  passed 
last  night,  with  hands  and  faces  and  aprons 
smudged  into  one  blue  stain.  I  had  decided  to 
go  to  a  water-mill  belonging  to  the  Man  of  Wrath 
which  lies  far  away  in  a  clearing,  so  far  away  and 
so  lonely  and  so  quiet  that  the  very  spirit  of  peace 
seems  to  brood  over  it  for  ever;  and  all  the  way 
the  wortleberry  carpet  was  thick  r,iicl  unbroken. 
Never  were  the  pines  more  pungent  than  after 
the  long  heat,  and  their  rosy  stems  flushed  pinker 
as  I  passed.  Presently  I  got  beyond  the  region 
of  wortleberry-pickers,  the  children  not  caring  to 
wander  too  far  into  the  forest  so  late,  and  I  jolted 
over  the  roots  into  the  gathering  shadows  more 
and  more  pervaded  by  that  feeling  that  so  refreshes 
me,  the  feeling  of  being  absolutely  alone. 

A  very  ancient  man  lives  in  the  mill  and  takes 
care  of  it,  for  it  has  long  been  unused,  a  deaf  old 
man  with  a  clean,  toothless  face,  and  no  wife  to 
worry  him.  He  informed  me  once  that  all  women 
are  mistakes,  especially  that  aggravated  form  called 


AUGUST  163 

wives,  and  that  he  was  thankful  he  had  never  married. 
I  felt  a  certain  delicacy  after  that  about  intruding 
on  his  solitude  with  the  burden  of  my  sex  and 
wifehood  heavv  upon  me,  but  he  always  seems 
.very  glad  to  see  me,  and  runs  at  once  to  his  fowl- 
house  to  look  for  fresh  eggs  for  my  tea;  so  perhaps 
he  regards  me  as  a  pleasing  exception  to  the  rule. 
On  this  last  occasion  he  brought  a  table  out  to  the 
elm-tree  by  the  mill  stream,  that  I  might  get  what 
air  there  was  while  I  ate  my  supper ;  and  I  sat  in 
great  peace  waiting  for  the  kettle  to  boil  and 
watching  the  sun  dropping  behind  the  sharp  forest 
ine,  and  all  the  little  pools  and  currents  into 
which  the  stream  just  there  breaks  as  it  flows  over 
mud  banks,  ablaze  with  the  red  reflection  of  the 
sky.  The  pools  are  clothed  with  water-lilies  and 
inhabited  by  eels,  and  I  generally  take  a  netful  of 
writhing  eels  back  with  me  to  the  Man  of  Wrath 
to  pacify  him  after  my  prolonged  absence.  In  the 
lily  time  I  get  into  the  miller's  punt  and  make 
them  an  excuse  f-^r  paddling  about  among  the 
mud  islands,  and  even  adventurously  exploring 
the  river  as  it  winds  into  the  forest,  and  the  old 
man  watches  me  anxiously  from  under  the  elm. 
He  regards  my  feminine  desire  to  pick  water-lilies 
with    indulgence,   but   is    clearly   uneasy  at   my 


i64  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

affection  for  mud  banks,  and  once,  after  I  had 
stuck  on  one,  and  he  had  run  up  and  down  in 
great  agitation  for  half  an  hour  shouting  in- 
structions as  to  getting  off  again,  he  said  when 
I  was  safely  back  on  shore  that  people  with 
petticoats  (his  way  of  expressing  woman)  were 
never  intended  for  punts,  and  their  only  chance 
of  safety  lay  in  dry  land  and  keeping  quiet.  I 
did  not  this  time  attempt  the  punt,  for  I  was  tired, 
and  it  was  half  full  of  water,  probably  poured  into 
it  by  a  miller  weary  of  the  ways  of  women ;  and 
I  drank  my  tea  quietly,  going  on  at  the  same  time 
with  my  interrupted  afternoon  reading  of  the 
Sorrows  of  Werther^  in  which  I  had  reached  a 
part  that  has  a  special  fascination  for  me  every 
time  I  read  it  —  that  part  where  Werther  first 
meets  Lotte,  and  where,  after  a  thunderstorm, 
they  both  go  to  the  window,  and  she  is  so  touched 
by  the  beauties  of  nature  that  she  lays  her  hand  on 
his  and  murmurs  "  Klopstock,"  —  to  the  complete 
dismay  of  the  reader,  though  not  of  Werther,  for 
he,  we  find,  was  so  carried  away  by  the  magic  word 
that  he  fiung  himself  on  to  her  hand  and  kissed 
it  with  tears  of  rapture. 

I  looked  up  from  the  book  at  the  quiet  pools 
and  the  black  line  of  trees,  above  which  stars 


AUGUST  165 

were  beginning  to  twinkle,  my  ears  soothed  by 
the  splashing  of  the  mill  stream  and  the  hooting 
somewhere  near  of  a  solitary  owl,  and  I  wondered 
whether,  if  the  Man  of  Wrath  were  by  my 
side,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  my  pleasurable 
feelings  to  murmur  "  Klopstock,"  and  whether 
if  I  did  he  would  immediately  shed  tears  of  joy 
over  my  hand.  The  name  is  an  unfortunate 
one  as  far  as  music  goes,  and  Goethe's  putting  it 
into  his  heroine's  mouth  just  when  she  was  most 
enraptured,  seems  to  support  the  view  I  sometimes 
adopt  in  discoursing  to  the  Man  of  Wrath  that  he 
had  no  sense  of  humour.  But  here  I  am  talking 
about  Goethe,  our  great  genius  and  idol,  in  a  way 
that  no  woman  should.  What  do  German  women 
know  of  such  things  ?  Quite  untrained  and  un- 
educated, how  are  we  to  judge  rightly  about 
anybody  or  anything  ?  All  we  can  do  is  to  jump 
at  conclusions,  and,  when  we  have  jumped,  receive 
with  meekness  the  information  that  we  have 
jumped  wrong.  Sitting  there  long  after  it  was 
too  dark  to  read,  I  thought  of  the  old  miller's 
words,  and  agreed  with  him  that  the  best  thing 
a  woman  can  do  in  this  world  is  to  keep  quiet. 
He  came  out  once  and  asked  whether  he  should 
bring  a  lamp,  and  seemed  uneasy  at  my  choosing 


i66  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

to  sit  there  in  the  dark.  I  could  see  the  stars  in 
the  black  pools,  and  a  line  of  faint  light  far  away 
above  the  pines  where  the  sun  had  set.  Every 
now  and  then  the  hot  air  from  the  ground  struck 
up  in  my  face,  and  afterwards  would  come  a  cooler 
breath  from  the  water.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  fight 
for  things  and  make  a  noise  ?  Nature  is  so  clear 
in  her  teaching  that  he  who  has  lived  with  her  for 
any  time  can  be  in  little  doubt  as  to  the  "  better 
way."  Keep  quiet  and  say  one's  prayers  —  cer- 
tainly not  merely  the  best,  but  the  only  things  to 
do  if  one  would  be  truly  happy  ;  but,  ashamed  of 
asking  when  I  have  received  so  much,  the  onlr 
form  of  prayer  I  would  use  would  be  a  form  of 
thanksgiving. 


Septemb 


er 


SEPTEMBER 


September  gth.  —  I  have  been  looking  in  the  dic- 
tionary for  the  English  word  for  Einquartierung^ 
because  that  is  what  is  happening  to  us  just 
now,  but  I  can  find  nothing  satisfactory.  My  dic- 
tionary merely  says  (i)  the  quartering,  (2)  soldiers 
quartered,  and  then  relapses  into  irrelevancy ;  so 
that  it  is  obvious  English  people  do  without  the 
word  for  the  delightful  reason  that  they  have  not 
got  the  thing.  We  have  it  here  very  badly ;  an 
epidemic  raging  at  the  end  of  nearly  every  summer, 
when  cottages  and  farms  swarm  with  soldiers  and 
horses,  when  all  the  female  part  of  the  population 
gets  engaged  to  be  married  and  will  not  work,  when 
all  the  male  part  is  jealous  and  wants  to  fight,  and 
when  my  house  is  crowded  with  individuals  so 
brilliant  and  decorative  in  their  dazzling  uniforms 

169 


170  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

that  I  wish  sometimes  I  might  keep  a  bunch  of 
the  tallest  and  slenderest  for  ever  in  a  big  china 
vase  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room. 

This  year  the  manoeuvres  are  up  our  way,  so 
that  we  are  blest  with  more  than  our  usual  share 
of  attention,  and  wherever  you  go  you  see  soldiers, 
and  the  holy  calm  that  has  brooded  over  us  all  the 
summer  has  given  place  to  a  perpetual  running  to 
and  fro  of  officers'  servants,  to  meals  being  got 
ready  at  all  hours,  to  the  clanking  of  spurs  and  all 
those  other  mysterious  things  on  an  officer  that  do 
clank  whenever  he  moves,  and  to  the  grievous 
wailings  of  my  unfortunate  menials,  who  are  quite 
beside  themselves,  and  know  not  whither  to  turn 
for  succoun  We  have  had  one  week  of  it  already, 
and  we  have  yet  another  before  us.  There  are 
five  hundred  men  with  their  horses  quartered  at 
the  farm,  and  thirty  officers  with  their  servants  in 
our  house,  besides  all  those  billeted  on  the  sur- 
rounding villages  who  have  to  be  invited  to  dinner 
and  cannot  be  allowed  to  perish  in  peasant  houses; 
so  that  my  summer  has  for  a  time  entirely  ceased 
to  be  solitary,  and  whenever  I  flee  distracted  to 
the  farthest  recesses  of  my  garden  and  begin  to 
muse,  according  to  my  habit,  on  Man,  on  Nature, 
and  on  Human  Life,  lieutenants  got  up  in  the 


SEPTEMBER  171 

most  exquisite  flannels  pursue  me  and  want  to  play 
tennis  with  me,  a  game  I  have  always  particularly 
disliked. 

There  is  no  room  of  course  for  all  those  extra 
•  men  and  horses  at  the  farm,  and  when  a  few 
days  before  their  arrival  (sometimes  it  is  only  one, 
and  sometimes  only  a  few  hours)  an  official  appears 
and  informs  us  of  the  number  to  be  billeted  on  us, 
the  Man  of  Wrath  has  to  have  temporary  sheds 
run  up,  some  as  stables,  some  as  sleeping-places, 
and  some  as  dining-rooms.  Nor  is  it  easy  to  cook 
for  five  hundred  people  more  than  usual,  and  all 
the  ordinary  business  of  the  farm  comes  to  a  stand- 
still while  the  hands  prepare  barrowfuls  of  bacon 
and  potatoes,  and  stir  up  the  coffee  and  milk  and 
sugar  together  with  a  pole  in  a  tub.  Part  of  the 
regimental  band  is  here,  the  upper  part.  The  base 
instruments  are  in  the  next  village ;  but  that  did 
not  deter  an  enthusiastic  young  officer  from  march- 
ing his  men  past  our  windows  on  their  arrival 
at  six  in  the  morning,  with  colours  flying,  and 
what  he  had  of  his  band  playing  their  tunes  as  un- 
concernedly as  though  all  those  big  things  that 
make  such  a  noise  were  giving  the  fabric  its 
accustomed  and  necessary  base.  We  are  paid  six 
pfennings  a  day  for  lodging  a  common  soldier,  and 


172  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

six  pfennings  for  his  horse  —  rather  more  than  a 
penny  in  EngHsh  money  for  the  pair  of  them ; 
only  unfortunately  sheds  and  carpentry  are  not 
quite  so  cheap.  Eighty  pfennings  a  day  is  added 
for  the  soldier's  food,  and  for  this  he  has  to  receive 
two  pounds  of  bread,  half  a  pound  of  meat,  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  bacon,  and  either  a  quarter 
of  a  pound  of  rice  or  barley  or  three  pounds  of 
potatoes.  Officers  are  paid  for  at  the  rate  of  two 
marks  fifty  a  day  without  wine  ;  we  are  not  obhged 
to  give  them  wine,  and  if  we  do  they  are  regarded 
as  guests,  and  behave  accordingly.  The  thirty  we 
have  now  do  not,  as  I  could  have  wished,  all  go 
out  together  in  the  morning  and  stay  out  till  the 
evening,  but  some  go  out  as  others  come  in,  and 
breakfast  is  not  finished  till  lunch  begins,  and  lunch 
drags  on  till  dinner,  and  all  day  long  the  dining- 
room  is  full  of  meals  and  officers,  and  we  ceased 
a  week  ago  to  have  the  least  feeling  that  the  place, 
after  all,  belongs  to  us. 

Now  really  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  a 
much-tried  woman,  and  any  peace  I  have  en- 
joyed up  to  now  is  amply  compensated  for  by 
my  present  torments.  I  believe  even  my  stern 
friend  the  missionary  would  be  satisfied  if  he 
could  know  how  swiftly  his  prediction  that  sorrow 


SEPTEMBER  173 

and  suffering  would  be  sure  to  come,  has  been 
fulfilled.  All  day  long  I  am  giving  out  table 
linen,  ordering  meals,  supporting  the  feeble  knees 
of  servants,  making  appropriate  and  amiable  re- 
marks to  officers,  presiding  as  gracefully  as  nature 
permits  at  meals,  and  trying  to  look  as  though  I 
were  happy;  while  out  in  the  garden  —  oh,  I  know 
how  it  is  looking  out  in  the  garden  this  golden 
weather,  how  the  placid  hours  are  slipping  by  in 
unchanged  peace,  how  strong  the  scent  of  roses 
and  ripe  fruit  is,  how  the  sleepy  bees  drone  round 
the  flowers,  how  warmly  the  sun  shines  in  that 
corner  where  the  little  Spanish  chestnut  is  turning 
yellow  —  the  first  to  turn,  and  never  afterwards 
surpassed  in  autumn  beauty ;  I  know  how  still  it 
is  down  there  in  my  fir  wood,  where  the  insects 
hum  undisturbed  in  the  warm,  quiet  air ;  I  know 
what  the  plain  looks  like  from  the  seat  under  the 
oak,  how  beautiful,  with  its  rolling  green  waves 
burning  to  gold  under  the  afternoon  sky  ;  I  know 
how  the  hawks  circle  over  it,  and  how  the  larks 
sing  above  it,  and  I  edge  as  near  to  the  open 
window  as  I  can,  straining  my  ears  to  hear  them, 
and  forgetting  the  young  men  who  are  telling  me 
of  all  the  races  their  horses  win  as  completely  as 
though  they  did  not  exist.     I  want  to  be  out  there 


174  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

on  that  golden  grass,  and  look  up  into  that  endless 
blue,  and  feel  the  ecstasy  of  that  song  through  all 
my  being,  and  there  is  a  tearing  at  my  heart  when 
I  remember  that  I  cannot.  Yet  they  are  beautiful 
young  men  ;  all  are  touchingly  amiable,  and  many 
of  the  older  ones  even  charming  —  how  is  it,  then, 
that  I  so  passionately  prefer  larks  ? 

We  have  every  grade  of  greatness  here,  from 
that  innocent  being  the  ensign,  a  creature  of 
apparent  modesty  and  blushes,  who  is  obliged  to 
stand  up  and  drain  his  glass  each  time  a  superior 
chooses  to  drink  to  him,  and  who  sits  on  the 
hardest  chairs  and  looks  for  the  balls  while  we 
play  tennis,  to  the  general,  invariably  delightful, 
whose  brains  have  carried  him  triumphantly 
through  the  annual  perils  of  weeding  out,  who  is 
as  distinguished  in  looks  and  manners  as  he  is  in 
abilities,  and  has  the  crowning  merit  of  being  mani- 
festly happy  in  the  society  of  women.  Nothing 
lower  than  a  colonel  is  to  me  an  object  of  interest. 
The  lower  you  get  the  more  officers  there  are,  and 
the  harder  it  is  to  see  the  promising  ones  in  the 
crowd ;  but  once  past  the  rank  of  major  the  air 
gets  very  much  cleared  by  the  merciless  way  they 
have  been  weeded  out,  and  the  higher  officers  are 
the  very  flower  of  middle-aged    German  males. 


SEPTEMBER  175 

As  for  those  below,  a  lieutenant  is  a  bright  and 
beautiful  being  who  admires  no  one  so  much  as 
himself;  a  captain  is  generally  newly  married, 
having  reached  the  stage  of  increased  pay  which 
makes  a  wife  possible,  and,  being  often  still  in  love 
with  her,  is  ineffective  for  social  purposes  ;  and  a 
major  is  a  man  with  a  yearly  increasing  family,  for 
whose  wants  his  pay  is  inadequate,  a  person  con- 
tinually haunted  by  the  fear  of  approaching  weeding, 
after  which  his  career  is  ended,  he  is  poorer  than 
ever,  and  being  no  longer  young  and  only  used  to 
a  soldier's  life,  is  almost  always  quite  incapable  of 
starting  afresh.  Even  the  children  of  light  find  it 
difficult  to  start  afresh  with  any  success  after  forty, 
and  the  retired  officer  is  never  a  child  of  light ;  if 
he  were,  he  would  not  have  been  weeded  out. 
You  meet  him  everywhere,  shorn  of  the  glories  of 
his  uniform,  easily  recognisable  by  the  bad  fit  of 
his  civilian  clothes,  wandering  about  like  a  ship 
without  a  rudder ;  and  as  time  goes  on  he  settles 
down  to  the  inevitable,  and  passes  his  days  in  a 
fourth-floor  flat  in  the  suburbs,  eats,  drinks,  sleeps, 
reads  the  Kreuzzeitung  and  nothing  else,  plays  at 
cards  in  the  day-time,  grows  gouty,  and  worries 
his  wife.  It  would  be  difficult  to  count  the  number 
of  them  that  have  answered  the  Man  of  Wrath's 


176  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

advertisements  for  book-keepers  and  secretaries  — 
always  vainly,  for  even  if  they  were  fit  for  the  work, 
no  single  person  possesses  enough  tact  to  cope 
successfully  with  the  peculiarities  of  such  a  situa- 
tion. I  hear  that  some  English  people  of  a  hope- 
ful disposition  indulge  in  ladies  as  servants ;  the 
cases  are  parallel,  and  the  tact  required  to  meet 
both  superhuman. 

Of  all  the  officers  here  the  only  ones  with 
whom  I  can  find  plenty  to  talk  about  are  the 
generals.  On  what  subject  under  heaven  could 
one  talk  to  a  lieutenant  ?  I  cannot  discuss  the 
agility  of  ballet-dancers  or  the  merits  of  jockeys 
with  him,  because  these  things  are  as  dust  and 
ashes  to  me ;  and  when  forced  for  a  few  moments 
by  my  duties  as  hostess  to  come  within  range  of 
his  conversation  I  feel  chilly  and  grown  old.  In 
the  early  spring  of  this  year,  in  those  wonderful 
days  of  hope  when  nature  is  in  a  state  of  sup- 
pressed excitement,  and  when  any  day  the  yearly 
recurring  miracle  may  happen  of  a  few  hours' 
warm  rain  changing  the  whole  world,  we  got  news 
that  a  lieutenant  and  two  men  with  their  horses 
were  imminent,  and  would  be  quartered  here  for 
three  nights  while  some  occult  military  evolutions 
were  going  on  a  few  miles  off.     It  was  specially 


SEPTEMBER  177 

inopportune,  because  the  Man  of  Wrath  would 
not  be  here,  but  he  comforted  me  as  I  bade  him 
good-bye,  my  face  no  doubt  very  blank,  by  the 
assurance  that  the  heutenant  would  be  away  all 
day,  and  so  worn  out  when  he  got  back  in  the 
evening  that  he  probably  would  not  appear  at  all. 
But  I  never  met  a  more  wide-awake  young  man. 
Not  once  during  those  three  days  did  he  respond 
to  my  pressing  entreaties  to  go  and  lie  down,  and 
not  all  the  desperate  eloquence  of  a  woman  at  her 
wit's  end  could  persuade  him  that  he  was  very 
tired  and  ought  to  try  and  get  some  sleep.  I  had 
intended  to  be  out  when  he  arrived,  and  to  remain 
out  till  dinner  time,  but  he  came  unexpectedly 
early,  while  the  babies  and  I  were  still  at  lunch, 
the  door  opening  to  admit  the  most  beautiful 
specimen  of  his  class  that  I  have  ever  seen,  so 
beautiful  indeed  in  his  white  uniform  that  the 
babies  took  him  for  an  angel-visitant  of  the  type 
that  visited  Abraham  and  Sarah,  and  began  in 
whispers  to  argue  about  wings.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  tired  after  his  long  ride  he  told  me, 
in  reply  to  my  anxious  inquiries,  and,  rising  to 
the  occasion,  at  once  plunged  into  conversation, 
evidently  realising  how  peculiarly  awful  prolonged 
pauses  under  the  circumstances  would  be.     I  took 


lyS  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

him  for  a  drive  in  the  afternoon,  after  having 
vainly  urged  him  to  rest,  and  while  he  told  me 
about  his  horses,  and  his  regiment,  and  his  brother 
officers,  in  what  at  last  grew  to  be  a  decidedly  in- 
termittent prattle,  I  amused  myself  by  wondering 
what  he  would  say  if  I  suddenly  began  to  hold 
forth  on  the  themes  I  love  best,  and  insist  that  he 
should  note  the  beauty  of  the  trees  as  they  stood 
that  afternoon  expectant,  with  all  their  little  buds 
only  waiting  for  the  one  warm  shower  to  burst 
into  the  glory  of  young  summer.  Perhaps  he 
would  regard  me  as  the  German  variety  of  a 
hyena  in  petticoats  —  the  imagination  recoils  before 
the  probable  fearfulness  of  such  an  animal  —  or,  if 
not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  at  any  rate  a  creature 
hysterically  inclined  ;  and  he  would  begin  to  feel 
lonely,  and  think  of  his  comrades,  and  his  pleasant 
mess,  and  perhaps  even  of  his  mother,  for  he  was 
very  young  and  newly  fledged.  Therefore  I  held 
my  peace,  and  restricted  my  conversation  to  things 
military,  of  which  I  know  probably  less  than  any 
other  woman  in  Germany,  so  that  my  remarks 
must  have  been  to  an  unusual  degree  impressive. 
He  talked  down  to  me,  and  I  talked  down  to  him, 
and  we  reached  home  in  a  state  of  profoundest 
exhaustion  —  at  least  I  know  I  did,  but  when  I 


SEPTEMBER  179 

looked  at  him  he  had  not  visibly  turned  a  hair. 
I  went  upstairs  trying  to  hope  that  he  had  felt  it 
more  than  he  showed,  and  that  during  the  re- 
mainder of  his  stay  he  would  adopt  the  suggestion 
so  eagerly  offered  of  spending  his  spare  time  in 
his  room  resting. 

At  dinner,  he  and  I,  quite  by  ourselves,  were 
both  manifestly  convinced  of  the  necessity,  for 
the  sake  of  the  servants,  of  not  letting  the  con- 
versation drop.  I  felt  desperate,  and  would  have 
said  anything  sooner  than  sit  opposite  him  in 
silence,  and  with  united  efforts  we  got  through 
that  fairly  well.  After  dinner  I  tried  gossip,  and 
encouraged  him  to  tell  me  some,  but  he  had  such 
an  unnatural  number  of  relations  that  whoever  I 
began  to  talk  about  happened  to  be  his  cousin, 
or  his  brother-in-law,  or  his  aunt,  as  he  hastily 
informed  me,  so  that  what  I  had  intended  to  say 
had  to  be  turned  immediately  into  loud  and  un- 
qualified praise ;  and  praising  people  is  frightfully 
hard  work  —  you  give  yourself  the  greatest  pains 
over  it,  and  are  aware  all  the  time  that  it  is  not 
in  the  very  least  carrying  conviction.  Does  not 
everybody  know  that  one's  natural  impulse  is  to 
tear  the  absent  limb  from  limb  ?  At  half-past 
nine  I  got  up,  worn  cmt  in  mind  and  body,  and 


i8o  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

told  him  very  firmly  that  it  had  been  a  custom 
in  my  family  from  time  immemorial  to  be  in  bed 
by  ten,  and  that  I  was  accordingly  going  there. 
He  looked  surprised  and  wider  awake  than  ever, 
but  nothing  shook  me,  and  I  walked  away,  leaving 
him  standing  on  the  hearthrug  after  the  manner 
of  my  countrymen,  who  never  dream  of  opening 
a  door  for  a  woman. 

The  next  day  he  went  off  at  five  in  the  morning, 
and  was  to  be  away,  as  he  had  told  me,  till  the 
evening.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  been  let  out  of 
prison  as  I  breakfasted  joyfully  on  the  verandah, 
the  sun  streaming  through  the  creeperless  trellis 
on  to  the  little  meal,  and  the  first  cuckoo  of  the 
year  calling  to  me  from  the  fir  wood.  Of  the 
dinner  and  evening  before  me  I  would  not  think ; 
indeed  I  had  a  half-formed  plan  in  my  head  of 
going  to  the  forest  after  lunch  with  the  babies, 
taking  wraps  and  provisions,  and  getting  lost  till 
well  on  towards  bedtime ;  so  that  when  the  angel- 
visitant  should  return  full  of  renewed  strength 
and  conversation,  he  would  find  the  casket  empty 
and  be  told  the  gem  had  gone  out  for  a  walk. 
After  I  had  finished  breakfast  I  ran  down  the 
steps  into  the  garden,  intent  on  making  the  most 
of  every  minute  and  hardly  able  to  keep  my  feet 


SEPTEMBER  i8i 

from  dancing.  Oh,  the  blessedness  of  a  bright 
spring  morning  without  a  lieutenant !  And  was 
there  ever  such  a  hopeful  beginning  to  a  day,  and 
so  full  of  promise  for  the  subsequent  right  passing 
of  its  hours,  as  breakfast  in  the  garden,  alone  with 
yeur  teapot  and  your  book  !  Any  cobwebs  that 
have  clung  to  your  soul  from  the  day  before  are 
brushed  off  with  a  neatness  and  expedition  alto- 
gether surprising ;  never  do  tea  and  toast  taste  so 
nice  as  out  there  in  the  sun  ;  never  was  book  so 
wise  and  full  of  pith  as  the  one  lying  open  before 
you ;  never  was  woman  so  clean  outside  and  in, 
so  refreshed,  so  morally  and  physically  well-tubbed, 
as  she  who  can  start  her  day  in  this  fashion.  As 
I  danced  down  the  garden  path  I  began  to  think 
cheerfully  even  of  lieutenants.  It  was  not  so  bad  ; 
he  would  be  away  till  dark,  and  probably  on  the 
morrow  as  well ;  I  would  start  off  in  the  after- 
noon, and  by  coming  back  very  late  would  not 
see  him  at  all  that  day  —  might  not,  if  Providence 
were  kind,  see  him  again  ever ;  and  this  last 
thought  was  so  exhilarating  that  I  began  to 
sing.  But  he  came  back  just  as  we  had  finished 
lunch. 

"  The  Herr  Lieutenant  is  here,"  announced  the 
servant,  "  and  has  gone  to  wash  his  hands.      The 


i82  THE    SOLITARY   SUMiMER 

Herr  Lieutenant  has  not  yet  lunched,  and  will  be 
down  in  a  moment." 

"  I  want  the  carriage  at  once,"  I  ordered  —  I 
could  not  and  would  not  spend  another  afternoon 
tete-a-tete  with  that  young  man, —  "and  you  are 
to  tell  the  Herr  Lieutenant  that  I  am  sorry  I  was 
obHged  to  go  out,  but  I  had  promised  the  pastor 
to  take  the  children  there  this  afternoon.  See 
that  he  has  everything  he  wants." 

I  gathered  the  babies  together  and  fled.  J 
could  hear  the  lieutenant  throwing  things  about 
overhead,  and  felt  there  was  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
The  servant's  face  showed  plainly  that  he  did  not 
beheve  about  the  pastor,  and  the  babies  looked 
up  at  me  wonderingly.  What  is  a  woman  to  do 
when  driven  into  a  corner  ?  The  father  of  lies 
inhabits  corners  —  no  doubt  the  proper  place  for 
such  a  naughty  person. 

We  ran  upstairs  to  get  ready.  There  was  only 
one  short  flight  on  which  we  could  meet  the 
lieutenant,  and  once  past  that  we  were  safe ;  but 
we  met  him  on  that  one  short  flight.  He  was 
coming  down  in  a  hurry,  giving  his  moustache  a 
final  hasty  twist,  and  looking  fresher,  brighter, 
loveher,  than  ever. 

"  Oh,  good  morning.       You    have   got   back 


SEPTEMBER  183 

much  sooner  than  you  expected,  have  you  not  ?  " 
I  said  lamely. 

"  Yes,  I  managed  to  get  through  my  part 
quickly,"  he  said  with  a  briskness  I  did  not  like. 

"  But  you  started  so  early  —  you  must  be  very 
tired?" 

"  Oh,  not  in  the  least,  thank  you." 

Then  I  repeated  the  story  about  the  expectant 
parson,  adding  to  my  guilt  by  laying  stress  on  the 
inevitability  of  the  expedition  owing  to  its  having 
been  planned  weeks  before.  April  and  May  stood 
on  the  landing  above,  listening  with  surprised 
faces,  and  June,  her  mind  evidently  dwelling  on 
feathers,  intently  examined  his  shoulders  from  the 
step  immediately  behind.  And  we  did  get  away, 
leaving  him  to  think  what  he  liked,  and  to  smoke, 
or  sleep,  or  wander  as  he  chose,  and  I  could  not 
but  believe  he  must  feel  relieved  to  be  rid  of  me; 
but  the  afternoon  clouded  over,  and  a  sharp  wind 
sprang  up,  and  we  were  very  cold  in  the  forest, 
and  the  babies  began  to  sneeze  and  ask  where  the 
parson  was,  and  at  last,  after  driving  many  miles, 
I  said  it  was  too  late  to  go  to  the  parson's  and  we 
would  turn  back.  It  struck  me  as  hard  that  we 
should  be  forced  to  wander  in  cold  forests  and 
leave  our  comfortable  home  because  of  a  lieutenant, 


i84  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

and  I  went  back  with  my  heart  hardened  against 
him. 

That  second  evening  was  worse  a  great  deal 
than  the  first.  We  had  said  all  we  ever  meant 
to  say  to  each  other,  and  had  lauded  all  our 
relations  with  such  hearty  goodwill  that  there  was 
nothing  whatever  to  add.  I  sat  listening  to  the 
slow  ticking  of  the  clock  and  asking  questions 
about  things  I  did  not  in  the  least  want  to  know, 
such  as  the  daily  work  and  rations  and  pay  of  the 
soldiers  in  his  regiment,  and  presently  —  we  having 
dined  at  the  early  hour  usual  in  the  country  —  the 
clock  struck  eight.  Could  I  go  to  bed  at  eight? 
No,  I  had  not  the  courage,  and  no  excuse  ready. 
More  slow  ticking,  and  more  questions  and 
answers  about  rations  and  pipeclay.  What  a 
clock  !  For  utter  laziness  and  dull  deliberation 
there  surely  never  was  its  equal  —  it  took  longer 
to  get  to  the  half-hour  than  any  clock  I  ever 
met,  but  it  did  get  there  at  last  and  struck  it. 
Could  I  go  ?  Could  I  ?  No,  still  no  excuse 
ready.  We  drifted  from  pipeclay  to  a  discussion 
on  bicycling  for  women  —  a  dreary  subject.  Was 
it  becoming  ?     Was  it  good  for  them  ?     Was  it 

ladylike?     Ought  they  to  wear  skirts  or ? 

In  Paris  they  all  wore .     Our  bringing-up 


SEPTEMBER  185 

here  is  so  excellent  that  if  we  tried  we  could  not 
induce  ourselves  to  speak  of  any  forked  garments 
to  a  young  man,  so  we  make  ourselves  understood, 
when  we  desire  to  insinuate  such  things,  by  an 
expressive  pause  and  a  modest  downward  flicker 
of  the  eyelids.  The  clock  struck  nine.  Noth- 
ing should  keep  me  longer.  I  sprang  to  my  feet 
and  said  I  was  exhausted  beyond  measure  by  the 
sharp  air  driving,  and  that  whenever  I  had  spent 
an  afternoon  out,  it  was  my  habit  to  go  to  bed 
half  an  hour  earlier  than  other  evenings.  Again 
he  looked  surprised,  but  rather  less  so  than  the 
night  before,  and  he  was,  I  think,  beginning  to 
get  used  to  me.  I  retired,  firmly  determined  not 
to  face  another  such  day  and  to  be  very  ill  in  the 
morning  and  quite  unable  to  rise,  he  having  casu- 
ally remarked  that  the  next  one  was  an  off  day ; 
and  I  would  remain  in  bed,  that  last  refuge  of 
the  wretched,  as  long  as  he  remained  here. 

I  sat  by  the  window  in  my  room  till  late, 
looking  out  at  the  moonlight  in  the  quiet  gar- 
den, with  a  feeling  as  though  I  were  stuffed  with 
sawdust  —  a  very  awful  feeling  —  and  thinking 
ruefully  of  the  day  that  had  begun  so  brightly 
and  ended  so  dismally.  What  a  miserable  thing 
not    to    be  able    to    be    frank    and    say    simply, 


i86  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

"  My  good  young  man,  you  and  I  never  saw 
each  other  before,  probably  won't  see  each 
other  again,  and  have  no  interests  in  common. 
I  mean  you  to  be  comfortable  in  my  house,  but 
I  want  to  be  comfortable  too.  Let  us,  there- 
fore, keep  out  of  each  other's  way  while  you 
are  obliged  to  be  here.  Do  as  you  like,  go 
where  you  like,  and  order  what  you  like,  but 
don't  expect  me  to  waste  my  time  sitting  by 
your  side  and  making  small-talk.  I  too  have 
to  get  to  heaven,  and  have  no  time  to  lose. 
You  won't  see  me  again.     Good-bye." 

I  believe  many  a  harassed  Hausfrau  would 
give  much  to  be  able  to  make  some  such  speech 
when  these  young  men  appear,  and  surely  the 
young  men  themselves  would  be  grateful ;  but 
simplicity  is  apparently  quite  beyond  people's 
strength.  It  is,  of  all  the  virtues,  the  one  I 
prize  the  most ;  it  is  undoubtedly  the  most  lov- 
able of  any,  and  unspeakably  precious  for  its 
power  of  removing  those  mountains  that  con- 
fine our  lives  and  prevent  our  seeing  the  sky. 
Certain  it  is  that  until  we  have  it,  the  simple 
spirit  of  the  little  child,  we  shall  in  no  wise 
discover  our  kingdom  of  heaven. 

These  were  my  reflections,  and   many  others 


SEPTExMBER  187 

besides,  as  I  sat  weary  at  the  window  that  cold 
spring  night,  long  after  the  lieutenant  who  had 
occasioned  them  was  slumbering  peacefully  on  the 
other  side  of  the  house.  Thoughts  of  the  next 
day,  and  enforced  bed,  and  the  bowls  of  gruel  to 
be  disposed  of  if  the  servants  were  to  believe  in 
my  illness,  made  my  head  ache.  Eating  gruel 
four  la  galerie  is  a  pitiable  state  to  be  reduced 
to  —  surely  no  lower  depths  of  humiliation  are 
conceivable.  And  then,  just  as  I  was  drearily 
remembering  how  little  I  loved  gruel,  there  was 
a  sudden  sound  of  wheels  rolling  swiftly  round 
the  corner  of  the  house,  a  great  rattling  and  tramp- 
ling in  the  still  night  over  the  stones,  and  tearing 
open  the  window  and  leaning  out,  there,  sitting  in 
a  station  fly,  and  apparelled  to  my  glad  vision  in 
celestial  light,  I  beheld  the  Man  of  Wrath,  come 
home  unexpectedly  to  save  me. 

"  Oh,  dear  Man  of  Wrath,"  I  cried,  hanging 
out  into  the  moonlight  with  outstretched  arms, 
"  how  much  nicer  thou  art  than  lieutenants  !  I 
never  missed  thee  more  —  I  never  longed  for  thee 
more  —  I  never  loved  thee  more  —  come  up  here 
quickly  that  I  may  kiss  thee  !  " 


1 88  THE    SOLITARY   SUMMER 

October  ist.  —  Last  night  after  dinner,  when  we 
were  in  the  library,  I  said,  "  Now  listen  to  me, 
Man  of  Wrath." 

"  Well  ?  "  he  inquired,  looking  up  at  me  from 
the  depths  of  his  chair  as  I  stood  before  him. 

"  Do  you  know  that  as  a  prophet  you  are  a 
failure  ?  Five  months  ago  to-day  you  sat  among 
the  wallflowers  and  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  my 
being  able  to  enjoy  myself  alone  a  whole  summer 
through.      Is  the  summer  over  ?  *' 

"  It  is,"  he  assented,  as  he  heard  the  rain  beating 
against  the  windows. 

"  And  have  I  invited  any  one  here  ? " 

"  No,  but  there  were  all  those  officers." 

"  They  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it." 

"  They  helped  you  through  one  fortnight." 

"They  didn't.      It  was  a  fortnight  of  horror." 

«  Well.     Go  on." 

"  You  said  I  would  be  punished  by  being  dull. 
Have  I  been  dull  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  as  though  if  you  had  been  you 
would  ever  confess  it." 

"  That's  true.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  let  me 
tell  you  that  I  never  spent  a  happier  summer." 

He  merely  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of 
his  eyes. 


OCTOBER  189 

"  If  I  remember  rightly,"  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
"  your  chief  reason  for  wishing  to  be  solitary  was 
that  your  soul  might  have  time  to  grow.  May  I 
ask  if  it  did  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

He  laughed,  and,  getting  up,  came  and  stood  by 
my  side  before  the  fire.  "At  least  you  are  honest," 
he  said,  drawing  my  hand  through  his  arm. 

"  It  is  an  estimable  virtue." 

"  And  strangely  rare  in  woman." 

"  Now  leave  woman  alone.  I  have  discovered 
you  know  nothing  really  of  her  at  all.  But  /  know 
all  about  her." 

"You  do?  My  dear,  one  woman  can  never 
judge  the  others." 

"  An  exploded  tradition,  dear  Sage." 

"  Her  opinions  are  necessarily  biassed." 

"  Venerable  nonsense,  dear  Sage." 

"  Because  women  are  each  other's  natural 
enemies." 

"  Obsolete  jargon,  dear  Sage." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  her  ?  " 

"  Why.  that  she's  a  DEAR,  and  that  you  ought 
to  be  very  happy  and  thankful  to  have  got  one  of 
her  always  with  you." 

"But  am  I   not?"  he  asked,  putting   his  arm 


190  THE   SOLITARY   SUMMER 

round  me  and  looking  affectionate;  and  when 
people  begin  to  look  affectionate  I,  for  one,  cease 
to  take  any  further  interest  in  them. 

And  so  the  Man  of  Wrath  and  I  fade  away 
into  dimness  and  muteness,  my  head  resting  on 
his  shoulder,  and  his  arm  encircling  my  waist;  and 
what  could  possibly  be  more  proper,  more  praise- 
worthy, or  more  picturesque  ? 


THE    END 


ELIZABETH  AND  HER  GERMAN 
GARDEN 


The  Author  of  "A  Solitary  Summer** 


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